Date: Fri, 21 Feb 2014 20:05:38 +0700
From: Robert Glass <robxglass@gmail.com>
Subject: Marc and Luke chapter 8

All right reserved. Any unauthorized use is prohibited. This is a
fiction. Any resemblance to people and/or events is coincidental. If
reading this deemed illegal to you, I implore you to stop. If it offends
you, please do not read on.

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CHAPTER 8: Don't Fool Yourself


I open a flood gate, he trickles.

I hate going through the holiday like this. This is not how I imagined our
Christmas and New Year together would go. I opened up to our therapist
about our fight at the very next session. I told her everything from my
side. I even expressed my doubt and insecurity about my role in his
struggle out of depression. He didn't say much about anything, neither his
subjective opinion nor his objective observation. Nothing. All I did get to
hear was him saying that I was not the reason he was unhappy and that he
loves me so much. That's all. He didn't talk much to me afterwards. I
didn't push it, he didn't blow up.

I wanted to blow up.

I'm turning into a maniac; one that loves Luke so much. I began to snoop
around on his laptop, wanting to know what he's been browsing. I was glad
that none of it was cleared and none of it was death- related. I would
follow him to work and I find nothing particularly peculiar. It would be
just him, smiling and laughing with his friends at Coles. If he was looking
especially dashing in his suit, I knew he was going to an interview. At
these times I would see him sigh right outside the office door, where he
would lean next to the nearest trash bin and light up a
cigarette. Absolutely nothing strange.

What is it, then? Why can't he try to be happy? Why can't he say what he
wants? I have to know what he wants from me, or for me to do. I want him
happy. If there's anything that I can give him, he can just tell me, right?
I told him that time and again. I insisted on that. All I got was "you have
been brilliant," or "I want nothing more." He must have wanted something
more!

I was restless before, during, and after our sixth session.

I'm tired. I fell asleep on the couch after that session. I can vaguely
remember Luke carrying me to the bed. Perhaps there was a kiss there. I
remember hugging a warm being.

"Marc, wake up." I hear him call.

"Five minutes," I say.

"This is not your childhood home and I'm not your mom," he snickers. How I
love to hear that.

"I haven't slept enough," I whine.

"You slept for an hour, Marc. It's time to wake up." His voice is calm,
kind and soothing; it lulls me to sleep. If he wanted to wake me up, he
should've screamed like a banshee... or my mom.

I toss and turn, not ready to give up this comfort. He's still sitting on
the edge, looking at me. This comfort is actually quite banal since nothing
is particularly special about this moment. I'm feeling nice and rested
despite my desire to have more sleep. The bed is cozy and protective and
the air feels cool against this summer heat wave and the world looks
gloriously orange and the room smells like Italian food. The man I love the
most is sitting there, waking me up with the most beautiful voice I've ever
heard and the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. This is my dream, to see
him smile so perfectly like that. This dream is now a reality.

Why do I have to doubt him all the time? Deep down I know I can trust
Luke. I know he's trying to be happy even when he's getting there slower
than everyone else.

"Come on, I've made us dinner," he lured.

"I smell marinara." I showed him how to make marinara sauce once and he
picked it up in an instant.  He's damn smart.

"Over spaghetti."

"I'm going to hate it, am I?" I ask playfully.

"You'll want to throw it to my face." He laughs. MY GOD he laughs! What can
give me more joy than that? I pull him. I have to have him. I don't care if
my breath smells like war or his smells like garlic; I must kiss him!

His kiss is badass. I don't know if a badass kiss exists; if it doesn't
then he's inventing it with me right now.

He's sitting on my lap with his legs and arms around me. He has me trapped;
perfect for his kind of kiss.  He's so domineering when he kisses me and he
knows how much I love it when he kisses me like that.  I'm certain now: I
love him because he makes me so fucking powerless. His kiss lets me know
that he takes me with all his heart. It's like he sees me as an adequate
partner, no, like I was the priceless partner. It tells me that he trusts
me. It's like the kisses are the only time he doesn't hesitate to open up
to me, like it's his way to say things to me, his way to unload his burden
and let me lift for him.

My dick is getting hard. With our foreheads pressing against one another,
we are blowing each other's faces with our hot breath. He doesn't care if
mine smells like war. I don't care if his smells like garlic. We are
communicating. I see him and he sees me. We show our desires to each
other. We take it in.

"I love you." I know he knows I'm serious.

"I love you." He's even more serious. He's not smiling, he's
demanding. He's asking me to do a million things with those words. He has
one wish in those words.

My stomach growls.

He laughs, loud and happy. My dick gets harder. I tuck him in my arms
instead. I can feel his body which gets fitter every day. I love it. I also
love his old, fat body, though. Our therapist says that exercise helps with
depression; it gets his endorphin flowing. Biology. I should've figured it
out myself. I digress. He's laughing and happy and I'm happy and horny and
hungry. I laugh into his collarbone. He laughs into my ear.

"I love you," he whispers to my brain.

"I love you too," I say to his heart.

He laughs still when mine died.

"What?" I ask.

"This... This love's too good to last."

"You don't mean that."

"I do and I don't," he says. "It is too good, but it will last."

I find serenity in his promise.

I take his butt in my hand, move to the side of the bed and lift him up,
then carry him to the dining table, making out the whole time. Hey, he
carried me to bed, I have to carry him out of it. It's only fair.  Besides,
I have to turn him on, just so that he gets that I still want sex even if
it's saved for dessert.

We have dinner. The marinara sauce is delicious, though not as good as
mine. The dessert of vanilla sex is fantastic. He enjoys rough sex more
than I enjoy "normal" sex, so we haven't done it in quite some
time. Tonight's vanilla is earth shattering. It may seem boring; it's just
us doing boring sex in boring missionary position. No. The missionary part
is the one that makes it not boring. I get to see his face as I hit the
right spot multiple times. I get to hear him call my name in the most
sincere and primal way directly to my ears. I get to see him protest my
moves and trust me enough to adjust my approach. I get to hear him beg for
me to fuck him harder. I get to see his eyes. I get to hear him cuss. I get
to kiss him. I get to say 'I love you'.

I'm getting weak.



I feel lonely. It's still dark outside and I can't feel him under my
arms. I hate it when I check my phone and the light is blinding me. At
least now I know it's 3 in the morning and Luke... left? I shouldn't have
taken that nap. Now I'm awake at 3 in the morning and Luke left. I really
don't want to wake up because this will ruin my day. Fuck it. The school is
on holiday anyway. But it's 3 in the morning and Luke left.

He's sitting on the windowsill in my living room, smoking his heart
out. Does he do this all the time?

"Luke?"

I startle him, it seems. He clumsily drops his cigarette on the
floor. Immediately he pick it up and kill the fire.

"You don't have to do that."

"I have to," he says. "I'm sorry. I know you don't want me smoking in your
place. I'm so, so sorry."

"It's okay," I say. "Just light another one up. I don't mind."

"Are you sure?"

I nod. He takes one out, put it between his lips, looks at me tentatively,
and ultimately lights it up. He put the box and the lighter back on the
book shelf next to the window. I walk to him, he looks at me. I take the
box and the lighter, he looks at my hand. I think he thinks I'm going to
throw it out. I'm not going to, I just want a cigarette.

"I thought you stopped," he says.

"I did." It's true. "Several times."

He laughs lightly. "I'm sorry I reintroduced you to this... evil."

"I do this more often than you think." He looks at me in disbelief. "At
least once a month, when I go hang out with my friends. You can say I smoke
socially."

"You naughty boy." He forms a sly smile.

"You do this often?" I ask him.

"Every time," he admits.

"I didn't know you need it THAT much."

He stares at his cigarette, rolling it between his fingers. He takes a long
drag off it, sucks in deep and slowly and steadily blows it out of the
window, creating a thin mist instead of a thick fog. "I don't need this; I
don't even crave it at all. I just want it."

"I know how it feels," I say. It's a lie. I know how it feels like to need
it and crave it. You can feel it with every breath you take. It feels like
you're filling your lung so full with dust and sand that you can feel it
pressing on the entire inner surface of your chest. It also feels like your
lung is so empty and hollow that you need to smoke just so you can feel
again. When you're a smoker, you can feel this undying need. At the very
least, you crave it. You don't feel the wanting. I don't know how it feels
like.

He smiles, takes several drags and looks at me several times. He's never
seen me smoke before. I guess it's exotic.

"So you basically just sneak out and smoke?" I ask.

"I sneak out, smoke two or three, I brush my teeth, I wash my face and
arms, and I go back to bed." He explains.

"I must sleep like a mule, then. I don't feel a thing."

"You better be, considering all the sex I give you." He laughs. Happy. I
see him happy. Maybe he was telling the truth when he said to our therapist
that we've been doing great. Maybe he is content with how things are going.

"I love you," I say for the millionth time today.

His smile grows wider. "I love you too."

I take one step closer towards him. He's looking up to my face now as I'm
by his side. I put on the macho wide stance; I lift my bare chest up and
pull my shoulders back. I take a long drag, take his face and I kiss
him. We compete to claim who can dominate whose lips. I slowly let myself
exhale and let the smoke transfers into him when we force our tongues to
fight for their lives. He coughs, each time harder.

I laugh. "I thought that would be a sexy move."

He laughs too. "You clearly need to stop smoking. It's getting to your
brain."

"It was nasty."

"You think?" He keeps his smile. That is all I want to see for the rest of
the night. Him smiling. "Let's kiss like normal people do."

I raise my eyebrows and offer, "You mean like this?"

I attack his mouth, thinking I had the element of surprise. He's still the
master of kissing. He takes over one second in and makes me surrender. I
love his kisses. I love his smiles. I love him so much!

I fall to the floor, sitting down, looking up. I'm simply mesmerized by his
smile. His smile. It's only a smile. It shouldn't be a big deal but it
is. He allows himself to be happy even if it's just a small fraction. I
don't mind if he trickles when I open a flood gate, just as long as he let
himself smile like this. Just as long as I know he's smiling; as long as I
know I can make him smile.

"I like seeing you like this." I have to say it.

"Like what?"

"Like this. Laughing, smiling, grinning. I love it. It makes me happy that
you're happy."

He chuckles. "I'm still far from being happy."

"I know that. You made me aware of it," I say. He laughs lightly. "I just
want to see you like this more often, every day if possible."

"I'm working on it."

I change my position. I now kneel in front of him. "Luke. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

Of course he interrupts me with words that only make me happier. "I love
you. I love us together. I like how it feels when you are here with me,
just the two of us. Call me greedy, but I want to have more of it." Please
stop me, I'm being cheesy.

His face changes, to that of holding expectation. I take his hand and
squeeze it. I want to calm him from this unexpected turn, but that move
seems to be designed to calm me down instead.

"Well yeah, I am greedy and I do want more of it. I want you to move in
with me. I want to see you every day. I know we're seeing each other much
more often than we used to but it's not enough for me. What do you say?"

One, two, three, smile! It doesn't happen. I count to three
again. Smile. Still not happening. Once more.  Smile? It still hasn't
arrived to his face. He catches my question and suspends it somewhere
between us.  He looks at me but not really seeing me. His eyes darts from
one thought to another. I wait longer, he still hasn't come to a decision.

"You hesitate," I say.

"I..." I can tell he desperately wants to answer it but he just can't get
to it fast enough. It's like he's driving through a freeway and suddenly it
splits to a hundred different destinations; he kicks the brake and sees the
map, never manages to understand, let alone read it. He's lost.

"That's okay. I know it's kind of sudden." I truly understand his struggle.

"I... I um..." He's still fighting for it.

"Luke, it's okay. You don't have to answer it right now. You don't even
have to answer it at all. Just forget it."

I can hear him taking a rather sharp breath. What did I say wrong? I search
his eyes, he looks at me with... fear? Terror? It definitely looks like he
saw something frightening.

"I have to go." He bolts. It surprises me!

"At 3 in the morning?" I ask. I don't hear a response from behind me. I
walk to my bedroom, he's dressing up in haste. He's really leaving. What
the...? Why is he having this reaction? I don't fucking understand. "It's
okay, Luke. Just forget I asked."

"I... I have to go," he repeats.

I am petrified while my mind races. I stay there at the threshold, watching
him collecting his... I don't know his what, I'm not really paying
attention. He brushes past me. He's walking fast. He's at the front door.

"What did I do wrong, Luke??" I shout.


___
Another trouble. Oh, Luke.

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