Nights Like This
Greg has always hated nights like this. The winter nights, the long ones, the infinite stretches of nothing that languish between dusk and dawn. Sleep is out of the question - his eyes sting when he closes them, and his body feels so wired he sometimes thinks it might vibrate off the bed. On nights like this, even the bawdy blare of television is swallowed by the quiet, and buried memories claw at the lids of their caskets, screaming to be let out. The refrigerator hums and the floorboards creak, and Greg often has to remind himself to breathe.
The night it happened was no different. It was December and fully three weeks before the longest night. Greg had marked the Solstice on his calendar - he had enough restraint to keep himself from crossing off the approaching days as they passed, but not enough to avoid staring long at the little square, running a finger over the number and the day of the week. Three weeks until the nights got shorter, and he could feel every day of it in his bones.
He wandered through the house, shutting the drapes, turning on every lamp in every room, hoping to push back the darkness that pressed against the windows; as always, it pushed back harder, slithering into the corners and behind the doors. It waited for him under the sofa, and he tucked his legs underneath him when he sat down, for fear that it would reach out and grab his ankles.
When light began to glow through the curtains, Greg's heart spasmed; for a moment he thought dawn had come early - and nearly flung himself out the front door to look - but the glow was followed by the crunch of tires and the plaintive whine of breaks. Greg closed his eyes as the headlights turned off, and the dark outside rushed to fill their void at the window. A car door slapped shut and shoes scuffed the pavement. Greg was at the door by the time the knock came, and he swung the door open just enough to peek through.
For a long moment he saw nothing, as his eyes strained to adjust to the darkness. Then the tip of a cigarette flared, glowing red in the blackness as breath was drawn through it, and all at once the visitor came into focus.
Bryan stood a few steps away from the doorway, hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. Greg cleared his throat and Bryan looked up, startled, as though Greg was the interloper and Bryan the one who belonged here. He took the cigarette from him mouth and threw it to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his shoe. Pausing a moment, he forced a wan smile, and looked to Greg with tired eyes.
"Can I come in?" he whispered. Greg opened the door and stepped out of the way. Bryan edged in, mincing nervously as he passed into the light. He had the look of a frightened animal, a wary quarry that sensed a trap. Greg laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't worry. I don't bite."
Bryan laughed shrilly, uneasiness ringing in his voice.
"I know. But I might."
Greg offered Bryan a spot on the sofa, and he eased into it gratefully. Greg watched Bryan sit, noting the gravity and care with which he moved, and realized that his friend was just as exhausted as he was, and that it was nothing new.
"I can never sleep on nights like this." Bryan spoke suddenly, clearly, his voice now calm and his eyes intent on Greg's.
"Me neither." Greg's voice was soft, and he looked at his hands, uncomfortable under the intensity of Bryan's gaze.
"You know..." Bryan let the sentence float away, his stare sliding to some unmarked point in the space beyond Greg's head. Greg raised his eyebrows, searching Bryan's face, and waited.
Bryan shook himself slightly, snapping back to attention. He leaned close to Greg, focusing raptly into his eyes. "You know, I think about you." A pause. "At times like this."
Greg blinked, waiting for more, and was too startled to react when Bryan kissed him.
The kiss was light and brief; Bryan's lips brushed over Greg's, opening slightly, pausing long enough to savor the feeling of smooth flesh before moving away. Greg's heart throbbed madly, confusion settling into his stomach and something else, something warm, settling below. He drew a jittery, ragged breath, and turned wide eyes to Bryan. The other man sat stiffly at his end of the sofa, his eyes still closed, lips still parted slightly. His eyes drifted open, slowly, and he smiled bitterly.
"I told you I might bite." He swallowed hard, nodded to himself, and stood, walking heavily toward the door. Greg watched him go, bracing himself on the arm of the sofa to keep from shaking. Bryan paused at the door, staring out into the dark for a moment before stepping through, and closing it behind him. the refrigerator clicked on and murmured from the empty kitchen.
Greg stood, shakily, and walked toward the front door, telling himself he was going to lock it. By the third step he had started to run, and flung the door open, dashing out into the dark, leaving the bright oasis of the doorway behind him. Bryan stood next to his car, preternaturally still, and Greg approached him slowly. As he neared, he saw his friend's shoulders were shaking, and he stopped as high gasp escaped Bryan's throat.
"For fuck's sake, Greg, why am I doing this?" His voice was thin, worn ragged from tears. Greg stepped closer, and Bryan turned to face him. The fear on his face was more evident than ever; it seemed to glow in the thick darkness, like a roadsign: gathering light from nowhere and throwing it back at Greg, stinging his eyes. Greg took another step, stopping inches away from Bryan.
"You're beautiful, Bryan." He reached up gingerly, laying a warm hand on Bryan's cold face. Bryan closed his eyes, leaning into Greg's touch and nuzzling his hand. Greg's heart beat furiously; he had never been so frightened in his life. Disgust mingled with desire in his gut, and two sides of his brain shouted at each other: "What are you doing?" and "More, more, more..."
He leaned in, gently, and kissed Bryan, slipping his tongue into the warmth of his best friend's mouth. Bryan succumbed immediately, melting limply between Greg and the car, squeezing his eyes shut, kissing back with all the frenzy he could muster. Greg pressed against Bryan, pinning him to the side of the car, feeling the heat of their bodies fuse them together in the cold of the night. He felt himself swell, and pushed harder, feeling a similar hardness pressing back. He broke the kiss momentarily to speak: "I love you."
"No you don't," Bryan whispered, and kissed him furiously, wrapping his arms around Greg and pulling at him, further crushing himself against the car. The moved awkwardly against each other, straining and thrusting, struggling for whatever pleasure they could find through their layers of clothing. Greg's breath came hard and fast, and he shut his eyes and moaned loudly as he peaked and burst. Bryan moaned with him, in perfect unison, and warmth and moisture spread between them as they panted and shook.
They stood, gripping each other tightly, for a full minute before they dared to open their eyes. Greg struggled to catch his breath as Bryan pushed him gently away. Cold air rushed between them and Greg felt suddenly sick.
"Is that all there is?" He implored, voice cracking weakly. Bryan reached out to him, but stopped himself before his hand touched Greg's face. He turned quickly and unlocked the car.
"Yeah," he whispered, and got in, shutting and locking the door. Greg stood mutely, and watched Bryan's taillights as he drove away. The red dots burned into him even as they faded, and he still thought he could see them, even after they were gone.
The next day had been a waking dream - colors were too bright, and sounds never quite loud enough, everything seeming to rush past him as he stood and watched. And with the next night came the news.
They hadn't found the car until that afternoon, so fully had it embedded itself in the trees and chaparral that lined the gorge. The skid marks were clear and black on the highway, and they pointed straight to where Bryan had gone over the edge. "Third crash this year up there," the sheriff had said, and Greg dropped the phone back into its cradle.
"Accidental death," they had called it. Bryan was to be cremated the next day. Greg guessed that they didn't call it suicide if they didn't have to, and knew it was better that way. He sat down before his legs went out from under him. The sun fell slowly out of the sky, and Greg wept hard as he realized that the nights were still getting longer.
He has always hated nights like this. Even now, so many years older and frailer and - some would insist - wiser, he still dreads the winter nights, the emptiness of them, the long black road that lies at the end of every sunset. On nights like this, the sheet is lifted off of every dead memory, and Greg can do nothing but stare them in the face, sickened by their paleness and wondering why they never rot away.
When the nights get long, he thinks about Bryan. The way his face looked in the dark, and the way the skidmarks looked on the asphalt. He wonders what might have happened, and if there was anything he could have done. He wonders if he really wants to know.
But most often, he thinks about the taste of Bryan's mouth, and the way his hands felt. It's the only warmth he has on nights like this.