Midnight

Michael tosses and turns in bed. He's wide awake and the reason why is less than a foot away from him, At first he thinks that Brian is asleep, but he doesn't hear that funny loud breathing that Brian swears isn't a snore. "Brian?"

"Yeah, Mikey."

Now that he knows his friend is awake, Michael's not sure what to say. They lay in the bed, blanketed by fleece and darkness and the quiet of the midnight hours until Michael finds the courage to speak. "Remember the other day?"

"What day was that?" Brian replies. His tone is quiet and maybe a little bit indifferent, but Michael is relieved that Brian didn't just tell him to shut up and go to sleep.

"When my Mom walked in...before we almost..." He loses his voice suddenly. Doesn't know where it went unless it was sucked in by the memory of Brian's hand drifting down his stomach, tugging at the button of his jeans...almost...

"You want an instant replay, Mikey?"

And this time the indifference is gone, the laugh is back in Brian's voice, and Michael doesn't know if he's being subtly mocked. Courage flees as quickly as soft snow in a driving rain, but not before Michael can ask, "Would you have...?"

Brian leans closer to him, his lips only inches from Michael's ear, his breath warm, moist, and laden with unfulfilled promise, his hands who knows where, but Michael knows they're closer than they should be.

"Would I have what?"

Michael can't see in the dark, but he can feel the warmth coming off Brian in waves. It burns into his arm even though Brian isn't touching him. Any hotter and it would singe the hairs off his arm. His mind collapses under the weight of its own confusion because this is Brian and they're best friends. They talk about other boys--Brian much more--but they don't do this with each other--not that Michael isn't curious.

A part of him wonders what might have happened if his mother hadn't come home quite so early the other day. Would Brian have "taken care" of him like he'd promised in his laid back, quiet voice? Would he be taking care of Michael even now instead of leaning over him, a little too far for satisfaction and a little too close for comfort?

Close, but not quite.

Two a.m.

Michael shivers in bed. The blankets are thick and heavy, but they don't chase away the chill at his back--a chill created by the distance from here to there.

Here, Michael curls in on himself, dazed by the evening's events. There, David lies, as immovable as a mountain and just as silent.

On the surface, they had forgiven each other. They were men and men mess up, Michael had declared. He hadn't felt good telling David about his aborted attempt at payback. He hadn't felt good doing it. It had been a relief to confess everything--a weight shoved off his mind and onto David's perhaps, but hadn't David done the same to him? Hadn't David been the one who had held out the prospect of life-long togetherness and then shattered that image with one careless confession? Was Michael supposed to be appeased that David's trips to the baths didn't involve fucking? Was he supposed to accept this truth so soon after the others had been held up to the light of day and shown to be as transparent as glass?

Perhaps a part of him does feel good because there was that one moment when he was describing his interlude with the other man who wanted him--those few seconds when he could see the awareness in David's eyes and knew that the knife had struck where it hurt. It had been brief because Michael's next words revealed the truth: that he hadn't gone through with his plan of tit for tat--hadn't been able to let Brady touch him when it felt so empty--couldn't go where David had gone, time and time again.

The greatest irony is that he wants to be touched now--wants it more than anything.

He wants to go back in time and have none of it happen--to be able to lie here and know that he's enough, that they're right together, that it can work instead of this gnawing feeling that they'll never figure it out and that it's all doomed.

David shifts in his sleep, but he doesn't move any closer. Michael takes matters in his own hands. He moves quiet as a mouse and resumes his usual position: nestled against David's side, where he can pretend that he's warm and happy and everything is just as it should be.

Four a.m.

Michael shoots up out of the bed, his heart pounding and his sweaty palms holding the sheets in a death grip. The room is noisier than it should be, the sound of passing traffic and drunken voices creeping over the window sill like a bumbling thief. For a minute, he doesn't know where he is, then the tide of memory floods in and shocks him into the present.

The neon motel sign blinks garishly and paints the room with red light like blood--a second reminder that home is far, far away and he has dug himself into a heap of trouble.

The lump under the blanket moves and reminds him that he and trouble aren't alone.

Michael climbs out of the bed and walks to the window. It should all be different. It should be Ben sleeping under the blanket. That blanket should be a soft cotton sheet, pulled up only to the waist to block out only the gentlest and warmest of breezes. The air should be lightly tinged with the fragrance of oranges and the ocean. The moon should be shining brightly on stretches of sugar-white sand.

Instead, Ben is Hunter. The sheet is a coarse, worn, and scratchy blanket. The air is heavy with the smell of mothballs, bug spray, the memory of stale cigarette smoke, and something that reminds him of old socks. Even the moon looks a little bit worn out and tired.

Then he hears Hunter mumble in his sleep as he often does. Michael walks over to the bed and lightly lays a hand on the boy's restless figure until he slips back into a quiet slumber. Sometimes that's all it takes--a touch on the shoulder, a few quiet reassurances and then Hunter falls asleep again.

Most of the time, it isn't that easy.

Most of the time, the nightmares shake Hunter awake and leave him wild-eyed and ready to bolt, desperate to escape from hell.

No one should react like that to thoughts about their own mother, but Hunter's mom was a different and far more despicable breed of mother and was the reason that Michael and Hunter were far away from home and on the run. She was the sole reason for Michael's promise--one that he meant to keep by any means necessary because Hunter was too valuable to be bought and sold.

Hunter could use a superhero right now--one who would swoop in at risk to himself and save them all from evil. If only I knew where to find a real one, Michael thinks, instead of being this pseudo-brother/father/savior that he wasn't sure he was meant to be.

Michael sighs, climbs back into the bed next to Hunter, and prays for a little forgetfulness until the sun rises and they have to run again.

Six a.m.

Michael sits carefully on the edge of the bed, not sure of what to do with his arms and legs. He's never been the most graceful of men, but he's never felt quite so clumsy before, as if he's too big or too small for his own body. He smiles at Vic and is relieved that he gets an answering smile in return, even if it's not the same as it used to be.

He should be used to this, since he and his mother have been here before, escorting Vic to the edge of death and back.

He should be used to this, but each time is brand new--whether it's Ted's coma or Ben's pancreatitis or Uncle Vic's numerous illnesses. Each time is a fresh reminder that it could all end at any moment--that it has to end some day.

He holds Vic's hand, which has become thin and insubstantial like old paper that is crackled and wrinkled around the edges. It is the only thing left of his uncle that still feels real. His voice, his eyes--all have faded away, erased by a battle fought long and fought well, but ultimately undefeatable.

There were sniffles and coughs around him until Vic asked to see them one by one. Debbie was the first and she came out of the hospice room with determination in her eyes that crumbled under the sob that escaped her. They all surrounded her and led her to the chair across from Michael and held her hand and rubbed her back while she cried her sorrow.

Rodney was next and he left as he had gone in--sad and quiet with the inevitable written in his eyes. They surrounded him too, only not so close because they were afraid to intrude on his grief, which was as fragile as Debbie's was boisterous.

For a split second, Michael considered passing up his turn because to go in would mean admitting that this goodbye was a final one. No one said anything. No one had to. His mother reached across and touched his face, while looking through tear-filled eyes. Ben and Brian sat on either side of him, Ben with his arm around Michael's shoulders, Brian holding his hand as if he wouldn't let go and with that wordless guidance, Michael found the steel that he needed to straighten his spine and walk in that room.

That was ages ago, or so it seems. He looks into Vic's eyes and sees that they've faded a bit more. The grip is a little looser, the breathing a little more shallow.

It's quieter than it was. The alarms have been turned off--all in readiness. The blinds are pulled just enough to let the rising sun filter in. It's bright and yellow and all together too cheerful, leaving Michael to wonder why Mother Nature doesn't seem to be mourning. It seems as if the whole world should be crying and not acting like this is yet another beautiful day.

He should be crying too, but he can't. The tears burn in his eyes and fill his throat until he's practically choking, but not one will spill.

He leans over to kiss Vic's cheek and feels the cheekbone press against his lips like a blade. Vic whispers, "I love you," in a raspy voice that's almost not there and suddenly Michael's tears break free from their bounds and score his face and Vic's.

He cries for what he had and lost, for what he will never have, and for what he has that will be taken away some day.

Eight a.m.

Michael rolls over in the bed and begs for more--more sweat-slippery skin, hearts pounding, numbness in his toes, air that just isn't enough so he has to take huge breaths of it before he can gasp out his pleas. It's morning and he needs this to get through the day.

Ben's mouth is everywhere at once, but it isn't fast enough. No sooner does Michael feels wet heat licking down his spine, than he wants and needs the same sensation on his chest, in all the dips and turns and valleys, on every part of him that can feel. He needs Ben to taste him inside and out.

Ben's hands are rough and hurried, but not hard enough. Michael demands the pleasure-pain of the tugging on his nipples, fingernails scraping down his back, fingers wrapped around his pulsing flesh.

Ben's body presses on him, but isn't heavy enough. Michael wants to be buried under his lover, losing himself between Ben and the sheets and oblivion--writhing together towards messy satisfaction.

Ben's arms hold him, but not tight enough. Michael needs to be held so close that he can't breathe unless Ben breathes, can't move unless Ben moves, until he loses all sense of 'you' and 'I' and there is only 'we.'

Michael craves reciprocation--to touch as he was touched, hold as he was held, invade as he was invaded, bury himself in Ben so deep that there is no escape to be found, no escape desired.

Ben's love surrounds him--in the words that don't have to be said, in the look in his eyes, in his gentle touch, in a hundred ways and days that can never be categorized or counted, and for Michael, that is enough.