This is primarily a love story; sex will occur sporadically, not in every other paragraph.
Love will never abide by religion or by law. Love can be punished, but it cannot be cured. Love is the ultimate anarchist. The term "sin" is meaningless in love's language, as is the term "underage".
If you disagree with this statement, go find another story to read.
If some law says you should not be here at all, it's your own choice to stay or go away.
If you should happen to like my story, please tell me: winterboy@tutanota.com
And please remember: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
THE SOUND OF HIS FOOTSTEPS
Magnus Winter
CHAPTER 11
In the afternoon Sander takes Thomas to the gallery. There's a new exhibition to put up: A young and undescribed female graphic artist. Catalogue must be printed, press announcements released, pictures hung.
Vera is there on her own when they arrive. There's an aura of annoyance and dissatisfaction clinging to her, and Sander feels an irrational lump in his stomach, as if it's his fault. But then, and Sander doesn't quite understand how it happens, it seems like Thomas with his mere presence and his small talk changes the whole atmosphere. Almost professionally, though not in an obvious and studied way. Like oil on water. Like this is his true and proper nature, like this is what has been hidden behind the insecurity and self-loathing Sander remembers so well. Sander lets this revelation wash over him, he feels love, he feels pride. Vera is suddenly more relaxed, seems more happy. Sander observes how often her eyes come to rest on Thomas, with curiosity, with admiration. They divide the tasks between them. Vera takes care of the catalogue and the press, Thomas and Sander do the unwrapping and the tidying.
The new pictures have trees as a dominant theme. Sander's first and immediate impression is that of predictability, almost bordering on the tedious. But Thomas stares long at a woodcut he's just unveiled from the bubble wrap.
"This is almost uncanny", he says. "First I thought this was just kitsch, but look at the way she breaks up the rhythm and makes it look ... I don't know, cracked in some way, without disrupting the flow. It's genius, the way she manages to add something sinister and destructive to this pretty-pretty wood cut. I could never do something as good as this. Oh, I do love pictures with layers in them!"
Sander watches Vera. Her head is tilted, mouth slightly open, eyes nailed to Thomas' face. He can't read her expression, his brain fills up with fear that she will find Thomas naïve and shallow, she's used to a lot more pretentious and involved analyses. But a stubborn pride grows in him: This is the spontaneous and unreserved Thomas he loves, this is Thomas openheartedly sharing his moment, not to impress or intimidate, just out of pure enjoyment. So unlike the besserwissers and the wise asses that irritate and bore Sander to death. Thomas is just Thomas. Thomas is the boy in the hallway. His heart swells.
Vera sits slowly nodding into the air. Suddenly her energy returns. "I'm getting hungry. What about you two?"
So Thomas is sent out for pizza.
Vera and Sander sort and group pictures along the walls and start to hang them. Midways Vera stops, sits down on the floor and shakes her head thoughtfully.
"Who is this guy? Jesus, it's like ... I don't know, magic to watch the two of you. Especially him. There's so much love in that face whenever you say something to him and he looks at you. It's like a movie, for fuck's sake. And just now, when you slid a finger across his cheek, it was so electric I nearly came! I've never seen such a small gesture between two men look so motherfucking erotic. You gotta hold on to that one!"
"I intend to. If I can. He has a say in it as well, you know."
"Do you have, like, eyes in your head? He is so smitten with you! Where did you find him?"
Sander is unsure of how much he wants to tell her just now.
"It's a long story. Long and old. I don't know where to start ..."
He doesn't have to go on. The door bursts open, and Theo, mustache-free now, flutters in with a tiny Vietnamese youngster at his heels. Flings his hand out and shouts like a coloratura soprano.
"Hel-lo, everyone! Here we come, me and Bao! Isn't he adorable? Say hi, Bao. That one is Vera, and that one over there is Mister Aleksander, and her name is not Sandra, I tried that on her already. Do you need any help?"
Vera rises, smiles to the Vietnamese boy who looks a bit insecure, his smile never comes up to his eyes.
"Oh, we're almost there. Just come and sit, we're waiting for pizza. Any minute now, I guess."
"Not that bloody whore's pizza you had the last time? I farted anchovies for a week!"
"We'll have to wait and see what he brings."
"He? What he? Oooh! Mystifioso!"
Theo is up in falsetto while Bao just sits with his polite little smile, looking from one to the other. Sander looks at Theo, shrugs and lifts his eyebrows.
Thomas enters with a couple of pizza boxes. Theo scrutinizes him, up and down, puts on an approving face and lets out a sound as if he's about to eat his favorite dish. Sander thinks: There's no one I know who can get more out of the letter M.
He observes how Thomas is taken slightly aback, but quickly gets his flow back. Nods to the newcomers.
"Hi. I'm Thomas."
He puts the boxes down on the table.
"I had no idea what you like, so there's one pepperoni and one bacon and blue cheese.
Theo glides over and minces around Thomas, about to lay an egg.
"Fabulous! Absolutely lovely! And I've just dissed Vera's Puttanesca, how crushingly embarrassing if you had brought one of those! And where do you come into the picture, if one may ask? I'm Theo, by the way."
He holds out his paw, palm up, limp wrist. Thomas breaks into a small smile and claps his hand onto Theo's in a medium five, sort of.
"How do you do, Theo."
"And from where did Vera pick you up, you sexy thing?"
Thomas tilts his head, tongue in cheek.
"And what makes you think it's Vera who's picked me up?"
Theo rolls his eyes and claps his hand to his forehead.
"Mother of God, not Aleksander the Nun? No Way! She's celibate! She's fucking frigid!"
Thomas makes short work of Theo, just snorts at him, and comes over to Sander. Sits himself astride his lap and rubs his nose against Sander's.
"Celibate, huh?"
The touch of discomfort Sander feels from this rather exhibitionistic performance floats off quickly, as does his worry about how Thomas would react to and handle these types around Vera. He has shown he can handle Theo at least, just the right amount of courtesy and reserve.
The pizzas are cut, Vera opens a bottle of wine, reserved for tomorrows opening. Bao still sits quietly and modestly with his tiny smile. Thomas pulls his chair over and starts talking with him, Vera follows suit. Theo throws himself at Sander, this time in a normal voice. And quiet hands.
"You! Christ, here we've all thought you were a eunuch or something, and then it becomes apparent you're shopping from the A-list! You've had us all fooled!"
"And you have a new protégé, I gather? How old is he, twelve?
"You'd think, huh? Actually he's twenty-two. Tiny, tiny dick, but such a treasure on his back."
"Too much information, Theo. He doesn't seem very sure of himself."
"Appearances deceive. He has discovered the benefits of acting young and inexperienced. He knows exactly what he's doing. And I wasn't joking, I've never been with anyone who gets as much out of bottoming as he does."
"And there I was, always thinking you were the obvious bottom! Because of all your high queening, I suppose. I hate it when my prejudices are revealed!"
"You're not the first. Stupid, the way people expect stuff from just looking at you. And I'm totally top, you know. But this isn't about me. Now tell me all! Where does this fetching number who walks in your shadow come from? We all thought you'd gone into hibernation."
Sander's dilemma again. His relationship with Thomas, so brittle and vulnerable still, something he feels he has to protect, and not take to the market. But he has to say something.
"It's still a bit ... shaky for me. You see, we were lovers when I lived up north. Seven years ago. And I just met him again."
"Seven years? And then he was ... like, twelve?" Theo winks.
"Touché."
Theo muses over this for a while.
"So that's why we never had any luck with you. And by God, how we tried!"
Sander just shrugs and shakes his head. Gets up and walks over to Thomas, whispers in his ear: "Let's leave now."
Vera waves him aside.
"Don't interrupt! Thomas is telling us about you and him in Tromsø. Have some wine and shut up!"
Sander loses his equilibrium. Oh Thomas, don't! It's our history, it's too big and too loaded to become coffee-table gossip! Thomas turns his head as if he had read his mind.
"I only told them about how I crushed on you the first moment I saw you. I haven't gotten any further."
There's a teasing gleam in his eye as he looks up at Sander, but he turns quickly to Vera.
"I'm sure I'll see you again, and maybe tell you a little more about Mister Sveen the dashing teacher. If the occasion is appropriate. Bye, everyone."
He rises, takes Sander's hand to leave with him. Vera throws her arms around his neck, and so does Theo. Sander holds his free hand out to Bao. The young man's hand seems disproportionally large compared to his diminutive body, and something in his face changes, the tip of his tongue to his front teeth, something a little indecent, as if to let Sander know he is open for business. Sander suddenly feels pity for him. Shakes his head slowly. Bao withdraws his gaze and puts his distant, oriental smile back on.
Out on the streets: An instant rainfall causes steam to rise from the heated asphalt, a strange, organic smell almost drowns the exhaust fumes and the scent of roasted coffee beans. Sander picks a couple of leaves off a chestnut tree, crushes them in his hand and holds them under Thomas' nose. Thomas sniffs, then quickly licks Sander's wrist.
"I've seen them before. Vera and Theo."
"Rally?" Sander is all questions. "When? Where?"
"Year and a half ago? Outside the Rainbow Bar. I was looking for the guy I was living with, he sometimes just gave me the slip and disappeared. Well, then I saw you, or I thought I saw you, with a bunch of people queuing to get in.
I remember Theo there, he's so recognizable. You were let in just as I came up."
"Is this true?"
"My head was spinning! I had to get in! But there were millions of people before me in the queue, and it didn't move at all, and I went crazy from waiting, so I decided to run around for a bit and see if I could get in later."
"Didn't you? Why didn't I see you?"
"I did get in. About an hour later. I rushed through the place, I was frantic! I saw the gang you were with, Theo and Vera and four or five others, but I couldn't find you anywhere. So in the end I figured I had been mistaken, and I felt like a balloon deflating, and I left.
"It could well have been me. I didn't go out much then, but occasionally I'd have a beer with them and then go home. God Almighty, what if ... Jeez, how absolutely damned!"
Thomas takes Sander's hand and brings it fleetingly to his lips.
"It doesn't matter. I've found you now anyway."
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Sander – the short movie. 2018
Scene 1
The Picture: Path through forest. Tall, straight and naked pine tree trunks. Sunrays sifted through branches draw spots on meager ground.
Balding older man walks slowly into picture, deviates from path. Finds tree trunk, wraps his arms around it, presses his whole body against bark. Feels an urgent need to shed his clothes.
Balding older man looks up, pulls back, kicks tree trunk as hard as he can. Disappears from picture.
Scene 2
Computer screen.
Skinny, pale body, 18 if one is to believe documentation, looks 15. Adult, muscular body with hairs on it. 30? 40? Positions change, half of them look uncomfortable. Mouths open and close. Sound is off.
Close up: Pink rosette, semi-transparent white drops seep out. Balding older man leans in, nose touches screen. Balding older man leans back, shoulders shaking, tears running.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Oslo, September 17, 1989
Sunday morning. Sander is lazily watching long, slender fingers dance across his belly, pull at the hairs below his navel, twirl them.
"Will you come to church with me?"
"What?"
"I want you to come with me to church."
"I heard you. I just don't see why?"
"I do go to church every now and then. I feel at home there. Surprised?"
"A bit, yes. I'd have thought you were through with religion after the way they treated you."
Thomas pulls and tugs, Sander smacks his fingers. Thomas giggles and withdraws his hand.
"Well, blame the sailor's church and Martin the priest."
Thomas snuggles into Sander's arms.
"In Göteborg, you know. He helped me when everything else seemed to go straight to hell."
"Oh. Tell me about it."
"I was expelled by the Pentecostals, right? They threw me out of my room as well, so there I was, rambling around with all my shit in my backpack trying to talk someone into taking me home with them. It's not that hard if you're not too picky. A couple of days here, a week there, you know? Only ... in the end I felt like a whore.
"Oh dear. What a change from what you were used to!"
"You can say that again. And it wasn't at all what I really wanted."
"Sounds even dangerous. I hope you didn't expose yourself to ... bad stuff."
"You mean disease? Don't worry, I've always played safe. But as I said, eventually I couldn't go on having sex with people for ... well, accommodation, when I didn't even like them. It all got so ... dirty. I felt just filthy. And I felt God had abandoned me. So I went to the Sailor's Church and asked to see a priest."
Thomas gets up from the bed, walks over to the window. Lifts his arms and stretches his back. The sight of him burns Sander's eyes: Those long, slender limbs drawn out against the morning light, square shoulders tapering to narrow waist and slightly widening hips. Milky white buttocks contrasting tanned back and thighs.
"And that's how I met Martin the priest. And he listened to me. He saw me, like I was a real person or something, not an object. Not a case. They have rooms there, and he let me stay for a couple of weeks."
He comes over and sits at the edge of the mattress. Takes Sander's hand and plays with his fingers.
"For me, who was about to lose everything I'd ever believed in, it was incredible to meet someone who wasn't out to admonish me or change me. Or fuck me. My self-esteem was at bottom level, right? I really hated myself!"
He lets go of Sander's hand, his face concentrated.
"He told me to look into myself, and if chaos was what I wanted to find, then chaos was all I would find. But if I could get past all my shame, and my fear, and my defiance, even my expectations, I would find the core, the real me, God in me, do you see what I mean? I shouldn't run away from what was inside me, or mute it like people do with manic cleaning or extremist thought-systems or compulsive sex ... I should just let Thomas in there be Thomas. I can't explain it right, now it all sounds a bit trite and banal, but it really was what I needed to hear. That there was something in me worth finding, worth taking care of, if you see what I mean."
"Maybe I do. He opened a different way to perception of yourself than the one so imprinted in you. Different than that sin-and-shame thing, I mean."
"Yes, but you know, that sin-and-shame thing was where I came from, my whole knowledge, so to speak. And without it there was just an enormous emptiness. So I needed someone who also believed in God to tell me that God hadn't abandoned me, that he was there, that I was still his child. Phew, I can't explain it the way he did, it sounds stupid when I try to tell you."
"Not at all. It sounds sensible and right. Right for you."
"The long and the short of it was that he convinced me that I didn't have to reject God to be myself. That God doesn't care if you know the whole Bible by heart, or which gender you are, or who you love, as long as your love is honest and true. And that wasn't what they taught me about love in Filadelfia, for sure."
Sander nods. Strokes Thomas' hair, feels his scar as he says:
"But then, the word love has been used by almost all religions and denominations, and it seems to me it always ends with love being an excuse for rigid rules and dogmas, or prejudice, or discrimination. Sorting and sifting their so called holy writings to find the definitions that suit them."
"But Martin didn't do that! He made me see that my ability to love, or my sexuality if you will, is a gift and should be treated with the respect it demands, not be part of a power structure or a means of oppression. That my sexuality was worth the same as everybody else's. And that was the first time I'd heard a Christian person say something like that. He even urged me to attend the Pride Parade. And he took me there! He saved my life! He even got me a job in Oslo!"
Sander pulls him in, holds him tight, feels his heart-beat.
"So we should both be grateful for him."
"Exactly. Now, are you coming to church or what?"
At the station, on the platform, five minutes until the train leaves. Sander has offered to drive him back to Hamar, but Thomas wants to take the train. He argues that he needs the space, the slow transition from what is here to what is there.
Sander wants to hug him, smother him, never let him go, but Thomas is reluctant when it comes to public display. A quick peck on the cheek is all. But his soft voice rings in Sander's ears:
"You've no idea, Sander, how crushingly in love I was with you. And today it is exactly seven years since the first time you noticed me and spoke to me."
When Sander later, back in his flat, is through with his trampling restlessly around in his rooms, missing Thomas and feeling the emptiness of everything, he flops down on the couch. Grabs his book, and out from it falls a tiny heart, painstakingly braided from thin, thin green straws. He kisses the heart cautiously, gets up and puts it carefully away in his mother's old jewelry box, where the paper birds already live.
Oslo, September 30, 1989
Thomas has come in shivering, soaked and bedraggled like a drowned kitten. Sander has sent him to the bathroom, ordering him to put his wet clothes in the dryer and put on something warm and dry.
He comes out wearing Sander's bathrobe just as Sander lights a fire in the woodburning stove. He leaves the stove's door open and moves two armchairs in front of the flames. Thomas leans in against the fire and rubs his hands.
"I was ten minutes late for the tram, so I decided to walk. And crossing the park, the weather just exploded!" He laughs and hugs himself. "Mmm. This is cozy. All that's missing is marshmallows for toasting."
Sander just sits watching him, surprised and filled with an unexpected and thrilling pleasure.
"I didn't know you were coming today!"
"Do you mind?"
"Are you insane? I'm delighted!"
"One of my colleagues wanted to switch shifts, so I'm free until Wednesday. And I had this overwhelming desire to pester you with my presence."
He leans over and kisses Sander on the lips, and at the same time the doorbell rings. Sander gets reluctantly up, goes out and pushes the button. A desperate voice sounds through the squawk-box.
"Uncle Sander! I need the bathroom!"
Sander buzzes him in, opens the door to the landing. He hears Johannes racing steps and sees him come up the stairs, his face greenish pale. Almost up, he doubles over and pukes like a pig all over his shoes and the stairs.
Thomas, having heard the commotion, comes out. Without waiting for Sander's reaction, he hoists Johannes up by his shoulders, pushes him through the hall and into the bathroom. Sander hears vomiting and splashing, hears how Johannes moans and groans. Thomas calls him from the bathroom. Sander stares ambivalently between the mess on the stairs and the open bathroom door: What is most urgent?
"Sander! In here! Now!"
The bathroom stinks from puke and shit. Johannes sits on the floor in front of the toilet, head resting on the porcelain, a yellowish brown fluid seeping out on the tiles under him.
"Help me!"
Together they get Johannes undressed and into the shower. Sander adjusts the water and hoses him down while Thomas collects his clothes and throws them in the washer. The tumble dryer is still humming. Johannes jerks from cramps, a trickle of sick runs from his mouth, and fluid shit still runs down his legs. His knees give in, he sinks down into his own spoils.
"Oh fuck, what do we do now?" Sander is totally put out.
Thomas feels Johannes' forehead and neck.
"No fever. Looks like food poisoning or something. I can deal with this if you clean up the stairs. Or the other way around, what do you prefer? I don't think there's much we can do but wait until it's over. Is this one of your nephews?"
Sander nods. "I'll do the stairs before someone stumbles into it."
On the way out, he turns and sees Thomas help Johannes stand up, and suddenly it's like the sight of Johannes' naked back and ass explodes on his retinas. He watches Thomas with the handheld showerhead, he watches Johannes spread his legs. Goosebumps rise on his skin as unwanted images echo through his brain. A voice breaks into his reveries, like a release:
"Leave me alone! I can handle this myself!"
Thomas comes out, together they clean the stairs and the hall. They retreat to the bedroom, find a pair of boxers and a T-shirt for Johannes. The bathrobe Thomas is wearing is soiled, so back in the bedroom they rummage through Sander's closet for something that fits him, but everything seems too large. All the same Thomas puts on a pair of jeans and a shirt, the garments dangle loosely on him. Sander is immediately transported in time, he sees Thomas coming out of his bathroom in Tromsø, led by Beate, and the memory threatens to knock him out. He leans back against the wall and whimpers. Thomas, who's busy looking for a belt, looks sharply up.
"What's the matter?"
"You. When we found you in the snow, when you came out of the bathroom wearing my clothes. I think that's when I really fell for you. So much it hurt!"
Quick as lightning Thomas comes close, folding him in his arms. Holds him until the door opens and Johannes enters dressed in Sander's underwear. He looks tired and sick, and embarrassed as well, his voice timid and disparaged.
"I think I'm empty now."
They put Johannes to bed in the guest room. Thomas fetches a bottle of water from the fridge, instructs him to make sure he drinks as much water as he can, then finds a bucket and places it beside the bed. Reminds him to tell them if he starts to feel worse, calms him by saying it will probably pass over night.
All clothes washed, the bathroom clean, Johannes asleep and a new fire going in the stove: Sander and Thomas are back in their chairs, a plate of cheese sandwiches, a bowl of olives and two cans of beer in front of them. Looking at each other and simultaneously bursting into laughter.
Thomas is the first to calm down. He dries his eyes and grabs his beer can. Doesn't open it though, just sits weighing it in his fist.
"Do you know what I was about to, that time when they beat me up and you found me? I was on my way to spy on your house. I did that a lot. Stood at a distance and stared at your door, imagining you inside there. Pathetic, wasn't it?"
Sander opens his can with a hiss.
"I had this fantasy. Fantasies, really, a sort of recurring story I used to fetch from my brain, and change and embroider upon several times. About you. About when we found you in a way. Not any less pathetic."
Thomas opens his beer. "Thrilling! Let's hear it!"
"It starts with me looking around, searching. Sometimes in a city, sometimes in a forest, or just in the dark. Looking everywhere, under things, among things, all over the place until I find you. And you're wounded, hurt, sometimes bleeding, sometimes unconscious, and you're always naked. So I pick you up and carry you, and you cling to my neck even though you're unconscious, and I wander off through all kinds of landscapes and environments until I find a secure place. A cellar, a boat, a cave ... And then I clean you, tend to you, take care of you, fix you back in working order, right? And then you'll start to caress me and we're in each other's arms."
Sander draws his breath, as if he wants to bury himself in this dream again.
"And there it usually stopped. Like that was enough, in a way. Maybe because the center of the story was you needing me, I think. That I could be there for you, help you."
He takes a deep swig of his beer.
"A few times I fantasized further, but whatever I made happen, we always looked into each other's eyes the whole time, even when I found you unconscious, and when we kissed, and when I sometimes let the fantasy lead to me fuck you. I never let go of your gaze. That fantasy suddenly came back to me when we were in the bathroom with Johannes."
Thomas seems to be looking for something in his beer can. Then he sighs.
"I wish I could just move into that fantasy. Be taken care of like that. Be warm and healed and complete because of you. Wonderful."
Sander stares into the air: I wish you could do that, too.
Oslo, October 1, 1989
Sander's umbrella turns inside out. He slips on wet leaves, almost falling over. At the corner of his street, a huge branch from an elm tree has fallen down and lays across the pavement out into the street. He lets go of his umbrella and tries to pull the branch to the side. It's heavier than he thought. Rain whips his face.
He runs towards his building, locks himself in and starts to climb the stairs. Loud music fills the stairwell, coming from the first landing where the door to his apartment is unlocked. The music increases in volume as he enters the hall. The door to the livingroom is open. His whole body freezes.
Thomas is the first to notice him. Johannes has his back to him, Sander can only see the back of his head diagonally across Thomas' face, like in one of those old movie kisses. His hand is buried deep inside Thomas' half-open pants.
Thomas has put his hand on Johannes' shoulder. He holds Sander's gaze, like he's trying to get a message across, or an explanation, then he pats Johannes a couple of times on the shoulder as a warning. Johannes abruptly turns, pulls his hand out of Thomas' pants and stares at Sander in a hostile manner. Opens his mouth, closes it again. Sander bites his lip, turns heavily around and escapes to his bedroom. Closes the door and sinks slowly down on his bed. His inside feels like it's dissolving. Pictures run through his brain, but none of them make sense.
He vaguely registers that the music is turned off. And in the middle of his chaotic mind a ridiculous thought rises like a fist. No, a fountain. What a song to choose! Family affair! What irony! And suddenly he starts to laugh, a bitter, cutting laugh that shakes his body before it turns into a white rage and a powerlessness that reduces him to a whimpering heap on the floor.
He is disturbed by sounds from the hall. Someone is about to leave. His initial shock gives way to jealousy and revenge. They're not getting away with this just like that! He stumbles to his feet and tears open the door. Johannes has his jacket halfway on. Thomas is nowhere to be seen.
Sander tries to put all authority from his years of teaching into his voice:
"No one's leaving! I'm not through with this yet!"
His words have no effect on Johannes, who finishes putting on his jacket, turns his collar up and makes for the door. Sander grabs him, but he tears lose. There's a biting sarcasm in his words:
"Well, excuse me! I didn't realize he was your ... property!"
Sander feels defeated all of a sudden. Defenseless. Naked. He sighs dejectedly. His anger fades into tiredness, but the bitterness is still there.
"He's not my property, damn you. But you know fucking well how I feel about him. And then, to go behind my back like that!"
"I can't talk to you when you're like that. Sorry. Maybe later."
Sander can't stop him. He hastens out through the door and runs down the stairs. Sander watches him disappear. Feels deflated, empty, stupid. He tries to understand his reactions. Johannes was absolutely right, he has no claim on Thomas, there are no promises, no terms or conditions in their relationship. Is it just jealousy, or disappointment that Thomas isn't exclusively his? Does he feel betrayed because he wasn't included? He is so full of confusion.
When he enters the livingroom, Thomas is standing in front of one of the windows, contemplating the storm outside. He hears Sander come in, but he doesn't turn around.
"Isn't it just as if this weather was appointed?"
The following silence is heavy, loaded, grating. Thomas fights his urge to turn, kill the distance, kneel before Sander and seek absolution. Then Sander breaks the silence.
"Know what I want? I want someone to shake me real hard and then convince me the earth is flat."
Sander must have fallen asleep. His senses slowly returns as he feels something lightly touch his cheek, soft strokes like feathers. He opens his eyes and sees Thomas sitting on the edge of his bed, his index finger stroking up and down his cheek while he's intently watching him.
Sander turns away from him, sees it's getting dark outside. The wind still hurls the rain against the windowpane, the tapping and whistling sounds come in waves. Thomas' voice touches him like an extension of his caressing finger:
"He looks so much like you. Like you would have looked at his age. And he was just there, right in front of me, and something happened. I wanted to know what it would have been like to be with you then, as if I could rediscover something. Rediscover you. Go back to the way we were at first. It ... it overwhelmed me."
Something falls into place in Sander's brain. A meaning, a clarity. He understands.
"Yes. Scary, isn't it?"
"It took me by surprise. It became a need or something. Something I had to look for and see if could find."
"And what did you find?"
Thomas doesn't answer right away. He opens his hand and lets his fingertips slide across Sander's forehead and temples, then down to his neck, his throat.
"I found he isn't you."
Sander looks at him now, a hungry question in his eyes. Thomas continues.
"I think I understood something right then, for real. It's impossible to go back. And hasn't that been bothering you as well? Wanting to go back to what we were, and finding it hard to handle the ... I don't know, sorrow? The sorrow that you'll never be that man again, and I'll never be that boy again. Am I right?"
Sander has to turn away. Tears sting beneath his eyelids. Thomas is just too accurate in his assumption. But there's another thing as well.
"How far would you have let it go? With Johannes, I mean?"
"I've no idea. I don't even want to speculate. Maybe you came back at just the right moment?"
Sander feels like going to pieces. He grips Thomas, pulls him down and squeezes him, holds him in a vise, and lets his tears run free. Sees how Thomas' eyes also well up. They hold on to each other, rocking together, desperately, like they want to vanish into each other, disappear in each other's tears.
" I just can't forget your young, your so young body!" Sander whimpers. "Your innocence! Your pure beauty!"
"Why do you have to forget it?" Thomas weeps back at him. "Does it crush you so much that I'm not sixteen anymore?"
Sander sobs quietly into Thomas' ear. Their embrace loses some of its desperation, and a different closeness, less dangerous, seems to envelop them. Sander takes his face between his hands and kisses away the wetness. Their lips meet, their tongues play and chase each other.
"So tell me. Who's the best kisser?"
"Didn't I just tell you he's not you?"
Sanders anguish flares up again, he feels like a vast hole howling to be filled. He clings even harder to Thomas.
"Don't leave me! Never leave me! Never ever!"
Thomas pulls Sander's sweater up, slides his hands over his skin. His eyes bore into Sander's, his eyebrows raised. As on a signal, they start tearing at each other's clothes, hectic, frenetic, as if it can't happen fast enough.
There's a fever, an urgency bordering on brutality in them. A hunger that can be quenched only by ferocious and unrestrained savagery. Everything reduced to this merciless, animal purpose: The fastest, hardest way to release. Sander violently enters Thomas, cries out and spills his seed deep inside him as Thomas' cum splatters over his chest and stomach.
They continue after the first explosion, slowly now, meticulously, each with great care for the other's pleasure. The urgency is gone, there's no hurry anymore, everything can last now. Thomas' lips caress the silken hardness of Sander's cock, the tip of Sander's tongue discovers Thomas' most secret places. And Thomas sighs into the air:
"I'm not going anywhere, Sveen, Sir."
(To be continued)