Your Hands, Clasped
This morning in your car, as you drove us to the station, we stopped at a red light. I turned to watch you in the driver's seat: your head bobbed, you licked your lips, you hummed some unfamiliar song to yourself as you tapped the beat out against your thigh with the hand not occupied on the wheel. The sunlight hit your hair and reflected off your sunglasses, and I felt myself fill with unalloyed tenderness towards you.
I picked your hand up with my own, and pressed my lips to your knuckles.
I realized as soon as I did so that I had misjudged, misintepreted the limits of what we have between us. Your hand was stiff with tension as you pulled it back, and you didn't speak or glance over toward me for the remainder of the drive, even as I kept up my own steady patter in the seat beside you.
The rest of the day I made an effort to give you your space, but it was strange to realize how unnatural it felt now to keep the distance from you that came so easily with others.
Last week I lay awake in my bed, listening to the sounds of the late night around me. The Consulate was empty, except for Diefenbaker and myself; even my father appeared to have gone off, to wherever else he goes, leaving my closet empty and silent. There were sounds of Dief's snores, and those of the city outside -- but the latter I find myself growing more and more accustomed to, barely noticing them much of the time, as used to them as I once was to the quiet and subtle sounds of the north.
But it was peaceful, and quiet, and I was alone. I found myself thinking of you.
Perhaps I should have been ashamed, using you, using the images of your hands, your mouth, the spark of your eye, using these pieces of you for myself, like hoarded treasures locked away for this moment. Perhaps I should have felt shame then, touching myself, imagining your touch instead, but I didn't.
It didn't hurt anyone. It didn't hurt you.
Five days ago I told you a story.
"I was seventeen the first time I fell in love," I said, and then amended, "At least, I believed it was love at the time. Infatuation is a better word, I suppose."
You were sitting across the booth from me, squinting down at your plate as you attempted to master the intricacies of the ketchup bottle, but as this you looked up and caught my eye.
I continued. "I had run away from home not long before. There had been an ... incident, involving a boomerang, a gold mine, and a full tank of gas. I thought running away my only option -- I couldn't imagine going back. My father was home at the time, though, and he found me quite quickly, and after we spoke I decided to go home, be a man, and face the consequences."
I paused for a moment. "It was humiliating, really. First the incident itself, and then crawling back with my tail between my legs. I was in disgrace for a long time, you understand. We were living in town at this time, but I didn't have any friends there. I was -- very lonely."
You were watching me with an odd expression on your face, but I didn't stop. "Steve was older than me -- twenty, twenty-one, perhaps -- and not particularly handsome. Very tall, and skinny, with bright red hair. My grandmother used to say he needed to grow into his limbs, get used to his bones. I thought him lovely, of course.
"He was kind to me. Kind, and courteous. He didn't encourage me in any way -- I doubt he ever really thought about me much -- but that was enough for me to build on. Before I left for the Depot, I decided to tell him how I felt.
"It obviously took him completely by surprise. He attempted to let me down politely, but there was an edge of disgust in his eyes. It was only two days before I left, though, and I didn't see him again."
I took a drink of water then, and as I set the glass down, you were still looking at me with your face creased, as if you were trying to figure something out.
"Why are you telling me this, Fraser?"
Being a fool for love once was youth. Twice was a pattern, but even so, the third time -- the third time, I thought, surely that just meant one was a fool. I could still remember the embarrassment of my youth, I could still feel the bullet wound in my back, and yet...
"It's not important," I said, somewhat abruptly, and you frowned at me.
Yesterday was a difficult day. Our case had gone nowhere, for one thing, and for another you seemed to be in an intentionally bad mood. I watched you grow crankier and more belligerent as the day went on, and eventually the mood made its way to me as well, until we were both sharp and short with each other when we spoke.
At the end of the day, when we were about to leave the station, Assistant State's Attorney Kowalski appeared, and I felt my spine stiffen even as you looked up from your desk, your face filled suddenly with an expression almost painful to view.
You handed me your keys and told me to head out to the car, you would only be a minute. Even as Dief and I walked out of the room, I could hear the low tones of your ex-wife's annoyance and your own softer response.
I was waiting in the passenger seat when you appeared outside, curled slightly into yourself. As if you were cold, protecting your warmth against the wind.
You let yourself into the car, and then you rested your head forward against the steering wheel, silent and still. I wanted to reach out -- touch you, comfort you -- but instead I watched you, unable to help, and then I turned my face to look out the window so you wouldn't have to meet my gaze when you raised your head.
I expected you to drop Dief and me off at the Consulate, but instead you brought all of us to your apartment. I followed you up the stairs, through the hallway, inside.
You paused just beyond the threshold as I closed the door behind us. Dief ran ahead, finding himself some place comfortable, but I stood still, waiting for you to move, to turn on the light, kick off your shoes, divest yourself of your jacket, all your homecoming rituals.
Instead you surprised me. You turned and you looked at me, and your eyes were pale and open in the half-light of your apartment, and I stared at you for a moment and moved forward towards you. Your mouth was open before I managed to kiss you, and even as I did, your arms were around me, pushing me back against the wall.
I wanted to go slow, enjoy this, revel in it, but you were moving quickly, twitchily, your hands and your body moving so fast I could barely process each sensation before the next one came.
You kissed me and I melted into your mouth, but then you left again.
"Ray, wait," I said, catching your hair in my hands, but you shook your head.
"Just let me--" you said. I waited for you to finish your sentence, but you never did. Instead you closed your eyes and moved again, your heat and your body against mine, until I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I couldn't keep my eyes open to watch you as you brought us both closer, closer, closer, there, there together to that beautiful unspeakable place.
Last night I slept in your bed. It was unfamiliar, of course, and strange, and not quite comfortable. I could feel your warmth radiate from your side of the bed as you fell asleep, and then as you rolled and twisted through the night. It was only after your hand reached out, patting softly against my arm before calming, that I fell asleep.
I woke up, too, to your hand on my skin, and then your kiss. This was the kiss I wanted: slow, sweet, your hands clutching my skin as I clutched yours.
You moved your mouth to my neck, and I twisted to give you better access as you kissed and sucked, as I stroked down your back and sides, still amazed by the feel of your skin. There would be a love bite there, I realized, but I didn't stop you.
You lifted your head, looked down at my neck and then to my face.
You shook your head, and said, almost resignedly, "Oh, jesus, Fraser," and then I felt your hand wrap around my erection.
I hissed in a breath through my teeth and you smiled at me, a little crookedly, and then you lowered your face to my groin. After a moment I felt your tongue, wet and gentle at the head of my penis.
I said your name and closed my eyes and groped desperately around, needing to feel you as you took me in.
Now, you say, "Look, Fraser, are you listening to me?"
I blink at you and say, "Yes, Ray."
Your hands are in your pockets. You are looking out at the water, not at me. "It's not -- I don't -- see, Fraser, what you got to understand is..."
Your floundering seems painful, so I try to be kind. I say, "It's all right, Ray. I understand."
At this, you do look at me. You say, "No, you don't. You don't get it at all, Fraser."
I shake my head. "You don't want -- or perhaps you don't know what you want." You freeze at this, just a bit, and I go on, "It is all right. It doesn't have to change anything. I wouldn't--"
"You wouldn't, would you?" you mutter, and you kick a stone at your feet.
Your capacity to frustrate never ceases to astonish me. I say, "Well, really, it's not as if this is that important, is it? In the larger picture--"
"Fuck that," you say, your face folding into a fierce scowl. "Fuck that, Fraser, because this is important, this is really goddamn important--"
Your voice is raising, getting louder as you go on, until you're practically shouting, and I answer in like kind. "Fine! What is it that you want from me, then?"
Perhaps it shouldn't, but your kiss surprises me. It takes me a moment before I get my bearings and pull away.
You're staring at me angrily, and you cross your arms in front of your chest. "I want all of it, okay? Everything. You happy now, Fraser?"
I stare back at you, and even as I absorb the shock, I can feel the smile forming on my face.
You glare at me and say, "I hate you, you know that?" but I ignore you, stepping closer again. When my arms encircle you, you stop resisting after a moment, and then you lean forward and rest your forehead against mine.
And we stand, like this, for a minute more.