Blue and Yellow

©MCVT2017 March 16, 2020

 

Cisco's life brings him to a crossroad.

 

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This story contains adult, erotic content: fiction, bM, MM, rom, slow.

 

— . –

 

 

Several quick, struggled breaths; gurgles ceased. Heaves from his wide chest stilled. Static, gray silence filled the house. 2:07 AM. My head beside his hip, slept sitting beside his bed; intuitively knowing this was coming.

 

Got up, began emailing, called the agency that sent the carers. They would send the coroner. No funeral, no comfort from friends; they'd long since stopped calling through dealing with their own losses.

 

Within the hour, the fully-covered staff from the coroner's office arrived with a gurney. Medical equipment people arrived. All efficiently working, all wordlessly moving from our bedroom, through the garage—then gone. Online, I notified friends, a few places we frequented. Sent along a snapshot from last December, the one we took at a café in the Yucatán. Then, I notified Carl's doctor and started filling the bio-bags.

 

Walked through a house surrounded by his, art, his colors. Carl loved the beach—he decorated in blues and yellows of the sand and sky. Each framed photograph burned my eyes, tore at my heart as I began to realize I faced life alone. Our hogar – our home now empty, suddenly hollow. Our hogar, the warmth of our hearth was cold; Carl was gone forever.

 

Self-pity was prickly, uncomfortable; went to clean out his closet. Traces of his smell, his cologne overwhelmed me. Gave in to the grief and cried for several hours, then walking the hallway, pausing at each photograph. His beauty was my beauty; remembered every place he'd photographed dunes against a cloudless sky.

...

 

Checked my phone to find a voice mail from the doctor's office. Said they were sending out a nurse. Called them back, there must be a mistake:

 

"Carl died. Didn't you get my message? I don't need a nurse – maybe something to help me sleep, but I don't need anyone coming over."

 

"Nurse Freeman can prescribe, but we need to know you're okay..." She threw a delicately-worded sales pitch, "He'll be there at five, wear your mask."

 

"What makes you think I need a nurse?"

 

"Protocol. Just making sure." Smiley-voice made me suspicious. They probably wanted to see if I was infectious; spreaders were detained or monitored.

 

...

 

Five o'clock a red compact car pulled in the drive. Short, dark-haired man got out, grabbed his satchel. Opened the door and almost shook his hand. "Francisco Torres-Reyes. Well, Francisco Reyes now."

 

He extended a blue-gloved hand, "Roelof Freeman."

 

Let him in, "Roelof?"

 

"Family's Dutch. Roelof's my father and grandfather's name. Great grandfather Roelof was the mayor here at the turn of the last century." He sat on the couch and opened his bag. "Nausea? Fever?" Pulled out a digital thermometer, stethoscope, and grabbed my wrist while he looked at his watch.

 

"Call me Cisco." I pulled my wrist back. "I'm okay. Need a `script for something to help me sleep, that's all."

 

Brazenly, he moved me down the couch, sat beside me and took my temperature and blood pressure as I looked away. Then he held up a vial and a needle; blood test. I glanced out the window while he pulled a sample. With a sigh, he put his equipment back in his bag, entered my numbers on his phone. He leaned back, looked around at photos of me and Carl, "Your partner?"

 

"Fourteen years."

 

Roelof handed me a tissue, "Feeling tired, hopeless?" Glancing at my face, "I have a list of..." He began his spiel. Didn't make eye contact while he explained county services, support groups and local church services online.

 

I stood, hoping he'd leave. "We took care of all the details right after Carl's diagnosis. I'm fine, just need something to help me sleep."

 

"When was the last time you ate?" His prying was irritating, then more than impudent, he went into the kitchen. "You don't have much food. Get your sweater, we'll go to the store."

 

"Later." I handed him his satchel.

 

"When was the last time you went out?"

 

I was stumped for a moment, Carl's carers brought what we needed, everything else was delivered. Standing with a blank stare on my face, Roelof called me to the living room, his hand on the doorknob, "Let's go."

 

As I grabbed my sweater, I uncovered Carl's house keys on the hook and froze. My eyes burned. The hands that held those keys were the hands that loved me, stroked me...

 

"It'll get easier." Roelof whispered, nudged my arm and we left.

 

...

 

Grocery stores aisles had one-way signs posted though few were shopping. Roelof went to the pharmacy while I decided to buy what I needed for several weeks. He returned, looked in my cart, "Sorry. Only two of each." We walked back through the store putting things back, "I'll show you how to clean everything before you put it away."

 

That took another hour as we hauled to the garage, then disinfected everything. While we worked, I asked if he'd like dinner. "If you don't have go back to work."

 

Checked his watch, "I've only got an hour left." Workers with yellow badges could stay out till sunset, only red-badged workers could stay out late. Roelof was yellow-badged.

 

"I can fix that." Took my phone out, got a pic of his badge, went to the computer and found a photo of someone in a red badge, matched the color and printed Roelof a new badge, trimmed the corners and stuck it inside his lanyard. "Let's eat."

 

Felt good having someone sitting across the table, pouring the wine. Found Roelof was quite knowledgeable about the "health challenge" as it was called now. Worked as a psychiatric nurse in the state mental hospital until his mother became ill, moved back to town when she was in the hospital. His mother passed, then his father succumbed.

 

"Switched jobs as soon as these positions opened. All the patients in the hospital, they're safe. But there's another reason I'm working in the community."

 

"Testing?"

 

"That's part of my work, and the resources." He paused, "But there's something else going on. It hits later, after a passing." He stopped, looked at me, "After a death, some family and friends get distorted. They temporarily lose their sense of time and place."

 

The distortion didn't involve any psychosis or schizophrenia, not by the textbook definitions, but were intense, sporadic sensory experiences. It was, as Roelof described, like a temporary second life.

 

"It's not dementia either. The person returns to their usual state after a while."

 

"Any specific time or place they're drawn to?"

 

"Don't know, this just started after the first lock down." He stared at his plate, thinking.

 

Had to chuckle, he was so serious, "Have you been distorting?"

 

"I'd like to understand more about it. Not directly microbe-related, I don't think, but it has a relation of some sort." He handed me a bottle of pills, "These aren't pharmaceuticals, but minerals and herbs. Avoid the addictive stuff as long as you can."

 

Roelof stayed, we had brandy, talked local news. Planning for my Carl's loss helped, but going out, eating and dining with another person allowed a few rays of normalcy to enter my life again.

 

...

 

Nurse Roelof dropped by every Tuesday, his only day off. We drove around town, all the bars and cafes, everything boarded shut. Here and there a bodega or a take-out was open; a few people dared to come out to jog, walk. Several weeks later as we came back from the store, I saw people on bikes. "I've got two bikes. Next Tuesday, you wanna go riding?"

 

He grinned, "Sure. Print yourself a yellow card, we'll got to the shore."

 

Spent the weekend getting the bikes cleaned off, tires inflated, chains greased. After a year of being shut in with Carl, I was excited. Went to bed early Monday night, took my pill and fell asleep quickly.

 

The last dream of the night... Perhaps it was the uncomfortable images it brought that broke my rest into the cool pre-dawn light. Lay and tried to remember the frustrations I'd just experienced:

 

Found myself carefully coursing creaky wooden steps upward, toward the voices. Soft voices, high-pitched almost unheard with the wind in my ears and the sloshing of the water below. How did I get here? This old quarantine station was on pylons; standing in several feet of water. Why weren't my pants, shoes, my skin damp?

 

Deeply breathed salt air, old wood, musty corners. Bright squares of sunlight on ink-black walls, sky-blue rectangles, once windows. Reflections of sunlight on the gray planked floor glowed ahead of me. Eerie ease surrounded me as I noticed soft, distant voices again.

 

Grabbed the railing of the stairs. It swayed; grabbed the newel at the kit winder glancing toward shore – half soft yellow-beige of sand and grass, thin, smudged line where it met the clear aqua sky. Carl's blue and yellow...

 

Hand on the wall touching an old shiplap plank. I placed my feet carefully on the bottom stair. Upward, shafts of light on the second floor. The whispers were audible, "He's coming."

 

"Maybe today we'll leave."

 

For some reason, my heart began pounding as I neared the voices on the second floor. No fear, but intense curiosity—those were children's voices.

 

Before the first rays of sun on Tuesday I heard Roelof pulling up and opened the garage door. Backpacks and sunblock, we sped eastward, then off to High Island. Over the shaky bridge and onto the packed sand, straight into a blazing red sun. Sun on our skin, wind on our sweaty masks—everything invigorating.

 

As we sat on the damp sand eating, "Carl and I came here..." I stopped myself as tears filled my eyes.

 

Since the beach was empty, I stood, dropped my clothes and went into the water. Cool, refreshing, I swam past the waves and stroked parallel to the beach, looked back to see Roelof walking into the water. We swam back and forth till we were tired. Back on the beach, Roelof watched me as I dressed. "Like my anomalies?" I joked.

 

He chuckled, looked away. "Nothing abnormal about you." He was erect and blushing, turned away to pull his briefs on.

 

Sweaty and red-faced, we raced back, sneaking past each other when we could. After we showered, I fixed plates. Roelof seemed agitated checking his phone, "What's wrong?"

 

"Another client just disappeared." He shook his head, "Second one in two weeks."

 

"Do you ask them if they've been distorting?" I chuckled.

 

Didn't answer me, just stared, thinking.

 

Watched the news for a while, and as the weather came on, Roelof stood to leave, "I'll let myself out." He leaned over and kissed my forehead, hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes, "Good swim, good ride. Thanks."

 

...

 

Ready for bed, sheets felt cool, good on my skin. I'd begun to enjoy sleeping for the dreams that became more real, more sensual almost every night:

 

Blue and yellow through each old window invited me upward. Vivid, the ocean's scent in the old quarantine station, sharp. Even the feel of the boards under my feet as they bowed slightly were intense. At the stairs again. The light, the reflections and the soft voices, inviting.

 

Two boys, seemed to be brothers, the younger was shy. The older boy told me in soft tones that they were waiting and were lonely, ready to leave.

 

"Where's your family?" I neared the visions and saw they were naked, skin the color of damp sand, eyes dark as the deep shadows behind them.

 

"We have to wait till someone comes for us."

 

"Who's coming for you?"

 

"Cambias la aperatura, Sissy."

 

That stopped me. "Change the aperture?" Carl taught me enough to know that meant to open the lens wider to allow more light; illuminate the details. Sissy was his pet name for me. "Who are you, boy—what's your name?"

 

"Vidal." The older boy fluttered his eyelashes and smiled widely showing a bright row of white teeth. Square and straight framed by red lips stretched in an impish grin.

 

The younger boy giggled softly, the older boy stared at me and my dream vanished.

 

More curious than disturbed, I wondered about my dreams, those boys were so young with a demure glimmer about their naked bodies. It made me want to touch them, hold them, kiss and comfort them. The visions, but not the sensations vaporized as my day began.

 

...

 

Next Tuesday, Roelof showed up and handed me his car keys. "You drive. I have to look for my missing clients."

 

Went to every hospital, nursing home, homeless shelter and the encampments, anywhere they might be. I waited outside while Roelof went in, showing their photos; he suspected a head injury, amnesia, or over-medication. Then, we went to the morgue, funeral homes and several holding centers. No one had seen them.

 

...

 

The weather turned cold. On Tuesdays I suggested Roelof use the treadmill in the garage while I pedaled a bike on a stand. As we worked out, we talked about our lives. I began several classes on income tax preparation, this lock down was skewing everything with my graphic design work. I needed an extra income. Roelof wanted to take several courses to become a specialized community nurse working with distortions, I suspected.

 

It was on a particularly frigid Tuesday we exercised together. After breaking a dripping sweat, we went to shower before dinner. Surprised me to see Roelof stepping into the shower with me, I'm sure my eyes were wide. My dick wasn't surprised, and immediately started showing off.

 

Got out wondering about Roelof's sexuality. That was a direct hit that felt like it could be fun but I was unsure. I'd gained several extra pounds staying inside, must be at least ten years older than him, and I was geeky, not a "thrill-a-minute" guy. As he came out of the shower, I handed him a towel, "Why didn't you tell me you're queer?"

 

"You never asked, and I wasn't sure—feels like Carl's still here." He pulled me against his chest, lips brushing mine.

 

"Are you infectious? Can it spread by... you know."

 

"Been negative on the scans every day at work, what about you?"

 

"No signs of problems." I was heating up with his rubbing his hard cock against mine, holding my head the way Carl did, kissing me. Couldn't get him to the bed fast enough; sheet, blankets flew, I checked the nightstand for condoms.

 

Didn't need a condom. As we held each other, I became weepy, then Roelof's eyes filled. Sinkhole of sorrow collapsed inside me. Then, I felt ashamed for my weakness. My grief intruded into the moment I was supposed to define with my expertise. I was aroused, really wanted intimacy, all the warmth and excitement and I couldn't.

 

Being the gentleman, Roelof brought hot cocoa to the bedroom, picked up his phone and showed me photos of his friends, parties and parades, showed me photos of his parents. Then he brought the box of tissues to the bed for himself.

 

"Sorry. Didn't mean to start a tear-fest." I'd ruined what could have been a magnificent afternoon.

 

"I pushed too hard, too fast." He kissed me tenderly, lay beside me and we held each other through moments of silent memories shifting through our minds. "These are lonely times."

 

...

 

Heard him arise early, dress, leave for work and I fell back asleep. Dreams came quickly:

 

Found myself running up the shaky stairs toward the boy, couldn't hear their voices. Were they still here? As I stood in the door, only saw one boy, the older one—black silhouette of narrow shoulders, straight lines of a child. Hair shaggier than before.

 

"Where's...?"

 

"Theo came for him." The boy turned to me and smiled. "Did you come for me today?"

 

"Where would we go?"

 

"The shore. Will you take me?" He almost smiled.

 

"I'll take you to shore, to your family."

 

"No family, take me to love me."

 

"I'm old, and you're just a kid."

 

He approached me to look straight into my eyes. "You're not old."

 

My head tilted forward, looking downward, I saw my hairless body, lithe and straight as his, my tiny erection bobbed, standing straight upward and only as long as a thumb drive. Looked at my hand, smooth skin, short fingers of a ten-year-old. What happened? This was just a dream—my mind wasn't ten years old; I was still thinking as a rational adult.

 

Tilting his head to the side, he took my fingers and walked me to the window, leaned over the sill, and turned his head, looking over his shoulder at me, smiling again. Instinctively I stood behind him, kneeled and stroked along his narrow torso, along his tan legs, his narrow rear.

 

"Love me again."

 

"Again? I've never... You just want me to take you away." I spit on his hole feeling I'd done this before, held him open and shoved my cocklet into his warmth. No long, slow strokes with three inches, and he was tight, hot and pushed back against me, small globes of his rear flattened against my hipbones. Closing my eyes, I could only hear his grunts, feel his squeezes and shoves. Faster, I needed more of his clenched warmth, his tender tissues, his heat. Watched one arm leave the window sill, he was pulling himself off while my skin slapped against his in staccato snaps.

 

"Uhn, unh, unh." He was hurtling toward his orgasm propelling me to plumb as far inside him as I could. I kept waiting for the rush, then remembered there wouldn't be one. No cum, no juice, only blips of pleasure, no release. Brief, but only half-satisfying through my confusion.

 

Wanted to stay in that dream, hold Vidal, kiss him. Needed to feel his lips on mine. When my feet hit the carpet, the images crumbled, flew away. Brain went into overdrive, headed toward the coffee pot and the computer.

 

After a big lunch, I became drowsy, closed my eyes. It came back—the vision of the old quarantine station on stilts in the water. Clearly, it came back to me in black and white, like old Polaroid Land photos. Forced myself awake and searched online. There was a quarantine station in the bay during WWII. Couldn't find where. I emailed Roelof, his family had lived in the area for generations, maybe he'd heard someone mention the location.

 

Tuesday Roelof showed up with several shoeboxes, "My dad took a lot of photos when he was young. The quarantine station might be in the background..." As we went through his photos, I asked Roelof to name and date each one; I'd digitize them for him, maybe find what I needed.

 

...

 

After our workout and a shower, Roelof cooked dinner. Set the table with candles, put flamenco guitar on, and poured the wine. "Brought something for the bedroom. Dessert." Romantic dinner. Felt good to be pampered, obviously seduced.

 

Dessert turned out to be a movie and a bottle of Amaretto, we drank half the bottle quickly.

Drifted into dreamland as one thought settled in my brain: Quarantine station, the old building on the water, the tide, smell of salt air, blue sky and sand...

 

I could hear him singing softly as I ran up the stairs nearing him, "Como una mañana de verano."

 

Beside him, I looked down to see the short, skinny form of myself during our last visit, "Asi, asi, eres tu." I joined him as his big black eyes looked into mine. Reaching my hand toward him, he turned allowing me to touch his chest, small ribs heaved as my fingertips ran along his ribs, his waist, the slender, tan hips. My short cock was straining being close to him. "Kiss me."

 

Slender arms wrapped my neck, fingers in my hair, he leaned forward, "Take me away." Then he kissed me. Adult-sized libido expanded, filled me tightly and I wanted to take, to force, but I'd meet my match, I wasn't a big, strong man, but a boy, like him.

 

"Are you a boy, I mean a real boy? Come to my house if you're real."

 

"Toda mi esperanza, eres tú, eres tú." Singing softly. "Take me there." Lifting his thin arm, index finger to clear blue sky outside the window. The pure blue sky above the sand.

 

He held me in a kiss while his fingers found my groin. Cool breeze on my hot face as the boy tugged my small, pale balls and he stroked my short stake. Slowly, gazing into my eyes, he lowered himself. Watched him, completely enchanted, as his red lips opened, pink tongue sneaked out to my slit. Body jerked with the moisture, succulent anticipation.

 

My mouth fell open as my hands touched his dark hair, black as the shadows behind him. Luscious licks as his hand pulled my foreskin back, my skin vibrated with electric energy. Readied myself for a short thrill, until I felt his hand on my butt, fingertip searching for my hole. Flexed my knees and groaned. Hadn't expected what happened, equipment was so small, but soon I felt that deep, stirring tremor; not strong, but slight and still arousing.

 

Sighed, feeling his tongue, my slit running along his palate, the back of his throat.

His finger inside me moved, pressed, rubbed. My hands grabbed his hair and for a few seconds, my body felt like it flipped inside out then right side out again quickly. I couldn't breathe for those moments.

 

Let go of his hair and stepped back pulling his finger from me abruptly. Smiling ebony eyes looked at me. The moment was perfect as we stared at each other in silent conversation. Perfectly peaceful, right. Complete immersion in those moments.

 

Eyes snapped open, I felt a cool spot on the sheet, my balls. I had to get up and wipe off a heavy load. Didn't go back to bed with Roelof, instead I started digitizing his photos.

 

Dawn, I started the coffee, red-eyed made toast, "Roelof, you going to work?"

 

He pulled me onto the bed next to him, making sure I felt his AM erection, "This is for you, any time." He grinned, I smiled.

 

With all that was going on in the world, this man was offering himself to me. Might work out. He was a nice guy, handsome, masculine, educated. Wondered if we could wait long enough to get into the right place beside each other. Took a rain check on his offer.

 

Carl was still holding my heart; Vidal's smile shot through my mind.

 

...

 

Set up a system for getting all the old snapshots preserved, carefully searching the backgrounds of beach scenes. No quarantine stations. Worked through the night and into the next morning. Roelof called, "Good news. I'm I registered for my courses and got several scholarships..." He rambled on for a while. "You sound tired, are you feeling okay?"

 

"Haven't slept yet."

 

"I'll bring steaks. Sound good?"

 

Left the back door open for him and went to bed. Fell deeply asleep, didn't wake up till he came in to go to bed, rolled in beside me, "What's going on? Seems like you're avoiding me."

 

What could I say? I lived to dream about a boy, about being ten years old again. That sounded not only irrational, but perverse in a peculiar way. Took the easy out, "Grief, something like abandonment, I guess." I glanced at Roelof's smooth face, twisted into a worried expression. "Who knows? I mean, I don't know, it's not you." Felt I better kiss him. Closed my eyes, pulled him to me, kept kissing him and jerked him off, still unable to look at him. Never liked lying and couldn't say anything about my dreams.

 

Took him to the shower. As we dried, "You're not even in the same room with me, Cisco. The longer I'm around you the further away you feel. I'll leave if you're not interested. Everything about you arouses me."

 

As he spoke, my mind changed his words to Vidal's words. The boy loved me; I knew he did. If only I could find him. And in front of me stood a real, naked, warm, man. "Give me some time."

 

...

 

Went back to bed and in my head, "Vidal, where are you?" No answer.

 

I sang silently, "Como una sonrisa, eres tú, eres tú."

His soft voice: "Así, así, eres tú."

 

He was still waiting for me.

...

 

Next day I researched quarantine stations, there were a number erected in the 1800s. Most rebuilt several times, repurposed into immigration shelters on and off. The last one to stand was used as an inspection point for ships. Eureka! Check the harbor master's old notes. Found the location easily, the old quarantine station once stood near the shore about five miles down the beach by the old jetty.

 

That night I tossed and turned, telling Vidal I was coming, promising I'd be there soon. At dawn, I left on my bike, hair flying, unmasked, wind on my face. I raced along the damp sand. Vidal's voice, his smooth, brown skin called.

 

To be ten, nimble, young and vibrant and alongside another boy, a boy who carried traces of Carl. Grow to men together at the beach, I could see it unplay in my mind. The closer I got to the old jetty, the rougher the waves became and the more outlandish my thoughts grew. My heart filled to bursting with imagined bliss, and soon to explode with ecstasy. I sensed my thoughts were illogical and I didn't care.

 

Kicked off my shoes and walked the schools, mentally calling for Vidal, the old station was somewhere close by. I passed the spot several times until the tide receded. The ends of a few old pylons showed a few inches above the waves not far offshore.

 

Threw off my shirt and ripped away my shorts. Facing seaward, I slogged through the shallows when I heard a horn, short, sharp beeps, like an alarm. A jeep was heading toward me, full speed, headlights blinking. Bullhorn blared, "Stop! Rip currents. Stop!"

 

Kept moving toward the pylons. Vidal wanted me to take him away.

 

Moved faster when the guys jumped out of their jeep, chasing me with ropes and floats slung over their shoulders. Leaning forward, I dove face-first, started swinging and kicking, salt water stinging my eyes. Frantic, breathing hard, head spinning around the image of Vidal. Fifty yards out, I felt a hand on my ankle, then another on my calf. Water filled my mouth as more hands grabbed me, tugging me back to shore.

 

"Why didn't you stop? Don't you know the currents can pull you under? You could have drowned." I looked above, at their faces. Fingers checked my pulse; a blanket was offered. I pushed it away and looked over the shoulder of the lifeguards toward the sound of a car, red compact. Roelof. I didn't want him here, but lucky he came.

 

He spoke with the lifeguards and pried me out of their protection while I found my clothes, and got in the car.

 

Before he turned the engine on, "We'll go to the ER first. I'll stay with you."

 

"I don't need a doctor."

 

"I didn't know you felt so hopeless, didn't recognize the signs..."

 

"I wasn't trying to kill myself."

 

"What were you doing?"

 

I could lie saying I was high, or grieving but that wouldn't help. Glanced over the dunes, where they met the sky and heard Vidal's soft voice calling.

 

Then, I looked back at Roelof's face, concerned, waiting for an answer, "Just take me home—take me home."

 

That started a yelling match as we drove the highway – I could hear the fear in his voice. He was afraid for me.

 

Ended as we pulled in the drive and I stormed in the house, Roelof in pursuit. Can't say I was angry, no, I wasn't angry, but frustrated with the entire day. In the shower, I calmed down, the feel of warm water, sweet water on my tongue. Still slightly upset, and feeling the very actions I took now would determine my future, I stomped to the bedroom, and grabbed my robe.

 

"Roelof, get in here!" I yelled. "I'll explain, I'll explain everything. Don't even try to tell me I don't know what I'm talking about. I know it because I lived it. It's mine, not anything you can bend into another `health issue.'" Felt like I had to get the rules in place, "And shut up till I'm done."

 

Not cowering at my voice, he tilted his head to the side, nodded and stepped back.

 

Pacing the end of the bed, I told him everything, the dreams, the boy, the sexual encounters, the reminders of Carl. The younger boy leaving—Vidal asking me to take him away to love him. "Remember you said these are lonely times, even in my distortions, Vidal was so lonely. His loneliness pulled at my heart. You wouldn't understand."

 

Roelof's eyes followed me, still silent.

 

"It wasn't a suicide attempt—I refuse to go to the hospital for wanting to help a lonely boy who felt so real. No more pills, no dreams and I'm sick of all this craziness. I just want..."

 

"Let me hold you." He stepped toward me, slipped his hands under my robe, warm, strong, secure, he embraced me, "What makes you think I don't understand? What makes you think I haven't met my own lonely distortions?" Rubbing his face, his stubble, his lips and nose across my chest, "What do you want?"

 

He understood? My hands went to the small of his back and I pulled him hard against me; warm, real. His breaths on my skin, his heartbeat next to mine.

 

What did I want? I wanted to grow old with Carl. I wanted to grow up with Vidal. I wanted my life back, like it was before. Those were only dreams.

 

I wanted peace, some kind of peace in this madness. Peace was my responsibility to make inside me, around me. Had my own loneliness kept me from that?

 

"Peace." I whispered, smelling the ocean still in his hair, "How did you make them stop?"

 

"The touch of your skin, your kisses..."

 

 

 

End

Blue and Yellow

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