Vestige: Chapter Thirty
Title: Vestige
Rating: NC-17; sexuality and sensuality, nudity, violent and disturbing imagery
Word Count: (Chapter) 5422; Novel (98001)
Disclaimer: Vestige and all related characters (c) Elizabeth Thornhill. Do not distribute this story without my express consent. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Chapter Thirty
The first thing he was aware of was the sand in his mouth. The second was the noise.
When he and Felix had arrived on the lakeside, it had been unnaturally still and silent. The very air had felt heavy and oppressive, Caleb could remember. The simple step onto the sand had felt like crossing through the threshold to some other world. A world he had long sensed and never dared enter. Now, however, he could hear the birds singing and the low buzzing of the crickets. He could feel the difference in the air, no longer cloying and thick.
The writer rose slowly to his knees, spitting the sand from his mouth and scrubbing roughly at his cracked lips. His bleary eyes searched the jungle edge before him, but he found nothing but darkness. And yet, it was a not a malicious or threatening darkness. It radiated none of the macabre danger it once had. Caleb knew that Montezuma was dead, that Tenochtitlan had died with him. The fire in his heart for the emperor softened to dull embers. What good would it do to damn the man? Montezuma was gone, and he had succeeded in ridding himself of the man’s curse.
The betrayal of the past has been rectified, and your blood has been cleansed. Leave this place now, Caleb. Nothing remains for you here. So Cortes had told him, but Caleb did not feel cleansed or absolved. He did not feel prideful of his victory over the emperor; he felt nothing as he knelt there on the lakeside.
He looked very little like the brave, foolish man who had knelt in the same spot earlier with his lover. His face deeply strained and aged, smeared with blood and horror. His hair matted with tangles, his eyes bloodshot and hollow. He resembled some warrior who has barely survived the massacre. Not only for the gore of his condition, but the dominating apathy that hung around his eyes and the corners of his grim mouth.
His father had told him the supernatural did not exist, and Caleb had desperately wanted to believe him. Perhaps to appease him, but more likely it had been to gain some of his cold, elusive love. Of course, even as a child he had recognized the cowardice of the man. He had pitied his father for that cowardice, and for his inability to believe. Now he envied him. He wished that he had never been touched by the other world.
“I killed everything,” Caleb said, his voice queerly hollow. His bloodied fingers curled against his palms, and he looked down at them blankly. “I killed everything. Did I kill him? Did my love do nothing but destroy him?”
There was no answer from the maw of darkness before him.
“Why?,” Caleb asked, something trembling through his droning voice. Something horrendously painful that he could not unleash. If he allowed what churned inside of him to break free, he would go crazy. “Why did you just leave me here? Didn’t I… Didn’t I do what needed to be done? Answer me.” His fist slammed against the sand, the pain radiating up his arm and through his healed shoulder. He could feel his control slipping, and he could not pull himself back from the edge. He could only look into that darkness with indignant, cheated anger swelling his heart and poisoning his cleansed blood. “Answer me!”
Caleb didn’t know who he yelled at - for - on that deserted lakeside. Cortes, Montezuma, Olivia. They had all abandoned him.
You know what needs to be done, some part of him whispered. The last scrap of him that possessed some ounce of strength and courage. Wiping his bloody hand against the side of his face, Caleb nodded miserably. He felt the darkness before him spreading through him, shadowing his heart and the last vestige of his mind. He closed his eyes and let out a deep, slow sigh. “I have to bury him,” Caleb whispered, and the shadows abated some as bright pain pierced him. “With my, with my hands.”
He looked down at his palms. The blood and gore on them was evidence of what he had done. But his work was not through yet. With his dirtied hands he would bring some kind of end to the nightmare.
But he knew the nightmare would never end.
<~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~>
His knees quivered as he crossed the sand, but he forced himself forward. Felix’s body laid by the water, his hand still outstretched, his fingers still curled lightly against his palm. Almost beckoning his lover to come and put an end to things.
Do not abandon this love, Olivia had told him. Her touch had been cold, her eyes had been lost in sadness. In that strange moment, he had felt bolstered, almost immunized against the plague of Montezuma’s revenge. But he was defeated now. Helpless, hopeless, aimless. Loveless, and that was the hardest to bear. That he could not summon the sweet, fragile thing Felix had offered to him to the forefront of his heart. He could only collapse to his knees beside his still body and watch the dawn break over the lake.
He had been stupid to make his lover promises. And Felix had been stupid to believe them. What had they done but lain there together in the night, one with lies on his lips, and the other with foolish trust in his eyes? They had set out together with nothing but their love. Vicente had said it would shield them, but the old man had been wrong.
“You should have let me fall,” Caleb whispered. He spoke to the lifeless body of his love, but he kept his eyes trained on the water. “You should have let me end it, Felix. You…” His voice caught, and he wiped miserably and absently at his eyes. “You should’ve let me die.”
But neither of them had been willing to back down. Neither of them had been willing to let go; and this was what their love and courage had earned them.
Slowly, gingerly, Caleb shifted Felix onto his back. He watched Felix’s head tilt back bonelessly over his arm. Without thought, Caleb pressed a kiss to the line of his bearded jaw. His lips were lightly scratched there, but he remained. He did not possess the strength to move from him. He watched the dawn play on Felix’s face, light and shadow warring over his features, the latter being slowly dissolved. It struck him painfully how he had once watched the sun burn against his face in the morning. How Felix’s black eyes had opened to him, sleepy and warm and content.
Futilely, the writer pressed his fingertips to Felix’s throat, just beneath his jaw.
Beneath his touch, a thin, sporadic pulse beat.
He brought his hand away and studied it almost accusingly. All he could seem to hear, pounding through his brain like the tribal drums of Tenochtitlan, was Montezuma’s voice. Your love is dead. Your love is dead. Your love is dead.
Caleb groped desperately at Felix’s throat, pressing in at his jugular once more. For a moment, he could not find a pulse, and panic gripped him. Had he imagined it? Had he gone so crazy with grief that he had tricked himself? And then he felt the weak beat, and his body flooded with warmth. He did not ask himself how Felix could be alive, or why. He did the only thing he could think of to do.
He pressed his mouth to Felix’s dry lips, and he breathed into him.
He could remember his lover doing the same to him; his breath coming heavy and slow, his medallion swinging between them, a chilly tickle on Caleb’s chest. And he had felt electrified by the breath, a perfect storm of eerie eroticism and empowering passion. Caleb leaned over his lover and breathed into him as if he could fill his wasted lungs with his breath.
Caleb did not feel his tears, but he saw his vision blur and watched the drops land on Felix’s cheek. His hands found the man’s wrists, squeezing them tightly, thumbs searching for his pulse. Stronger now, or just an illusion? Just a manifestation of the writer’s desperation?
No. Stronger. Steadier. As he had not questioned the presence of that pulse, he did not question its strengthening. He closed his eyes and filled his lover with his breath, feeling himself growing light-headed, but unable to stop himself. In his mind, he saw he and Felix standing on the marble of Tenochtitlan, their mouths joined together, the air heavy and electric around them. Think of that as a booster shot against monsters.
Aware that he was making animal noises - deep, growling, desperate sounds that warred between despair and aggression - Caleb pushed his tongue into Felix’s mouth. It was not an erotic meeting, but a purposeful one. And he could feel the air losing its peacefulness, growing into that electric, frantic, crushing air from the empire. Not Montezuma’s atmosphere, but theirs.
Gently, Felix’s tongue curled against his, and Caleb clamped down tightly on his wrists. His pulse throbbed strongly. For a moment, he could not differentiate between that pulse and the beat of the splinter. Both held the same strength and steadiness, both carried the weight of his hope.
Head swimming, vision blurred with tears, lungs deeply shuddering, the writer left his lover’s lips. He found Felix’s mouth gaped slightly, lips damp. His coal eyes were half-open, hazy but aware. The musician spoke only four words to him, his voice weak and hoarse and more beautiful than Caleb remembered.
“Are they burning again?”
Caleb could not look away from his eyes, could not remove his hands from Felix’s wrists. He could not move their mouths more than a few inches apart. He felt the heat of Felix’s breath against his mouth as he asked the question, and his body trembled with relief.
“Yeah,” Caleb answered, shadowing Felix with the fall of his body. “They’re burning again.”
He led Felix’s wrist to his mouth, pressed a kiss against his pulse.
“Just for us, Felix.”
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For five days, Felix was held captive in St. Augustine’s Mercy. Perhaps ‘captive’ was a bit too strong, but after the third day sitting up in bed and watching the world outside his window, he began to grow impatient and restless. The hospital was reputedly the best in Mexico City, but he felt fine and wanted to go home. Whenever he expressed this desire to Caleb, the man would smile wanly and press a kiss against his wrist. It seemed to be his new favorite spot.
Felix wished he would have found a lower spot to apply his lips. He desired that almost as much as he desired to return home.
He listened to his lover tell him of Montezuma’s end. Felix grew animated when the man spoke of Montezuma almost overcoming him, going so far as to punch Caleb’s shoulder forcefully. “Ah, you were ready to give up again, querido. And don’t look at me like that. I promised you a punch.”
His joie de vivre faded when Caleb spoke of Cortes. The writer watched his lover turn his face away, the gray sky outside painting drably on his features. “I felt him in the darkness with me,” Felix said quietly. His hand stroked at his throat, unconsciously searching for the comfort of his medallion. When he realized it was gone, his fingers slipped down to his side. “I heard him,” he continued, and he smiled sadly. “He told me I couldn’t die.”
“Felix,” Caleb whispered, scooting himself a little closer and taking the man’s hands into his own. He traced his touch lightly over his lover’s calluses. “I don’t… I mean, I couldn’t…”
“Ah, don’t,” Felix murmured, leading one of his ensnared hands to Caleb’s hair, stroking his curls gently. “It’s all right, mi corazon. I’m here with you.”
Caleb inched a little closer, chuckling when Felix’s brow arched. “No, no, you wouldn’t,” Felix dodged, but Caleb caught the little flicker in his eye. Impish and daring. “You wouldn’t kiss a man laid up in the hospital, mi amor.”
Caleb chased his lips and caught them, running his thumb up Felix’s jaw line, cradling the back of his neck. The kiss was slightly tentative on Felix’s end, before he melted into it, running his tongue out against Caleb’s teeth, grazing his own teeth against the writer’s lips.
“No, no!,” a woman reprimanded, the soft leather soles of her shoes slapping against the linoleum. Caleb felt his shoulder swatted with a clip-board. “No kiss, no kiss!” The writer abandoned his lover’s mouth, feeling his face flush, only growing redder when Felix laughed.
“Not funny,” the nurse opined gravely, pointing seriously at her patient. “You should control him better, Felix.”
Felix held up his hands. “He attacked me. What could I do?”
“Oh my God,” Caleb groaned.
The nurse rested her hand to Felix’s forehead. She was a small, plump woman with fingers that seemed to always be cold. Of course, she knew that, because she always smiled a bit when Felix started and gasped under her touch. She wasn’t a cruel woman, but she was severe. Her critical eyes reminded Caleb of Dorothy. Felix had commented that at least Dorothy had a nice rear end, which had earned a disgusted groan from his lover.
“¿Necesitas algo?”
“No, gracias.”
The woman smiled at him, some of the harshness of her face softening. She looked to Caleb, and the edges sharpened once more. Of course he knew she didn’t care for him, she had made it quite obvious. But he flashed her a wide grin all the same; just like his sister, allowing her to smell fear was a horrible mistake. “Mm, de nada,” the nurse returned, keeping her eyes centered on the white man’s face. “You behave yourself,” she told him gravely, jabbing her finger at him with each word. “Yes?”
“Yes,” Caleb agreed.
Reasonably satisfied with his compliance, the woman left them alone. She left them in silence, that was only interrupted with a quiet cough from Felix and Caleb scuffing his sneakers against the linoleum. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but it did carry a hefty weight. It seemed to both of them that the silence demanded from them something they could not give. To offer some kind of absolution to what they had done, to implant it with some kind of nobility. But neither of them could seem to muster the strength.
They were alive, and together. Everything else seemed secondary, seemed to feebly stand on nothing bur principle. After surviving such an ordeal, after all that they had seen and touched and done, shouldn’t they have talked of it all? Rehashed the entire journey into the twisted land, opened their hearts and bared their souls?
No. Because all that had transpired was written on their faces. It was reflected in their eyes as their gazes locked. It was spoken in their touches, as Caleb cupped Felix’s cheek and stroked his thumb over his warm skin. As Felix nuzzled against his palm and took loose hold of his wrist. In the end, Montezuma had not possessed the strength to kill their love. And that would have to prove enough to content them.
But there was something…
“I love you,” Felix said quietly.
The words seemed to warm a part of the writer that had remained cold; a part that had remained behind on that deserted lakeside. He leaned in and pressed a small kiss to Felix’s lips. “Ah, no,” Felix chuckled, but he wrapped his arms around Caleb’s neck and pulled him closer. “You heard the lady, querido. Control yourself.”
“Mm, screw that,” Caleb grinned, “I want some sugar.”
Their lips touched, and Felix’s arms folded tighter around his neck. The musician felt his heart flutter, and for some reason, his thoughts were not dominated by that beautiful, deadly land they had ventured into. It was not filled with that rooftop where the sky had been painted magenta and the body of his lover had fallen against it. It was filled with then. He was consumed by the moment, and Felix could hardly breath through the kiss, breaking it and pressing his face against Caleb’s shoulder.
Neither of them spoke. Caleb held him and tucked his nose against his hair. Felix drowsed some on his shoulder in the silence, smaller and more fragile than Caleb had ever seen him. The nurse returned with a tray of food, looked at the two querulously, but left without a word. Caleb appreciated that, he doubted he would have let go of the man even if the woman had beaten him over the head with her damn clipboard.
I breathed life into him, Caleb thought, but it seemed only half-true. He breathed life into me. Yes, that was what Felix had done. He had found Caleb in his selfish and dismal depression, and he had breathed some of his sweetness into him. It had not been an act of fate that they had come together, but it had not been pure chance. They had been two lonely men in a lonely world; and when they had drawn together, the threat of blood and dark dreams had not been enough to tear them apart.
“When I thought I’d lost you,” Caleb murmured, “I wasn’t alive.”
“Mm…,” Felix drew in a breath deeply, turning his face a bit to rest on Caleb’s throat. “Did you say something, querido?”
“Yeah, I said you need to eat and then get some sleep. I’ll run down to the cafeteria and see if they have any of that rancid potato salad left. At this point I’m hungry enough to eat my own foot.”
“M’not hungry,” Felix whispered.
“Sleep, then,” Caleb directed, slowly guiding Felix down to the bed. Sunlight brushed briefly against his cheeks before bending to shadow. Caleb studied him closely, almost transfixed by him. He put his lips against Felix’s brow. “I think you’ve earned a little rest.”
“You too,” Felix mumbled.
“No rest for the wicked, baby.”
A faint smile lifted Felix’s lips. “We’ve seen wickedness, lover,” he said, and Caleb could hear the tired pain just beneath his drowsy cadence. He wondered what Montezuma had shown Felix, what past agony he had unburied in the musician’s heart; but he knew it was not for him to know. Again, Caleb’s mouth touched the inside of Felix’s wrist, where he could feel his pulse strongly beating. “Get some sleep, baby. I’ll be---”
“No,” Felix pleaded, grabbing the man blindly. “Stay with me. Until I fall asleep?” There was something infinitely childish and sad in the request, but of course Caleb couldn’t deny him. He had never been able to, and he doubted he ever would.
“Okay. Relax. I’m right here.”
Felix’s eyes opened to him, heavy hooded and dreamy. “Donde fuego hubo cenizas quedan,” he said, softly and slowly. Caleb felt a chill from the words; even if he did not understand them, he felt deeply impacted by them. “Where there was fire,” Felix continued gently, “There is ash.”
“More philosophies,” Caleb smiled.
“My mama used to tell me that when I was little. She was bitter about it, but it’s true. We left a piece of ourselves back in that land. I wonder how much of it we brought with us.”
A chill ran up Caleb’s spine. “You need to sleep,” he heard himself say, “You’re not making any sense.”
“You’re a racist.”
“Sleep,” Caleb insisted, his smile resurfacing, though it felt a little plastic on his face. “Don’t make me get physical with you.”
“Ahh, wouldn’t that be nice,” Felix murmured, before he finally obeyed Caleb and drifted to sleep. For a long while, Caleb sat there in the quiet. Until the sunshine that filled the room darkened. The low pain in his stomach, clamoring for food, went ignored. He thought of what Felix had said, about how much they had left of themselves in Tenochtitlan; of how much they had taken from the place. Had they branded themselves with some supernatural taint? Or was it something as simple as a haunting memory they took with them?
In either instance, there was nothing he could do about it. He was desperately weary from all of the analyzing, and he simply ignored the clamoring of his mind as he did the low sounds in his stomach. He moved himself into the chair beside Felix’s bed, and curled his large body in it awkwardly. Caleb craned his neck, trying to find a comfortable position, but found the exercise useless. He slumped his head on his shoulder and reached out for Felix’s hand, holding it loosely and brushing his thumb over his pulse.
He was obsessed now with verifying Felix’s reality. It was understandable, but at the same time, it was dangerous.
Caleb sighed and closed his eyes, forcing his fingers to leave Felix’s wrist and stroke against his open palm. The darkness came to collect him. In his dreams he found the lakeside. The moon glared down overhead, and he was sobbing as his hands tore into the sand, digging a grave, the sand coarse and painful under his nails.
Beyond the darkness, his hand seized Felix’s wrist once more.
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“Hijo.” The voice on the other end of the line was hoarse and tremulous, heavy with emotion. Felix’s head reclined with the tone, his eyes growing hot and moist. “Soy yo, abuelito,” Felix returned quietly, his own voice trembling slightly. He felt Caleb brush his bangs back from his forehead, his lips pressing warmly and comfortingly against the skin. “We did it,” Felix continued, and from the other end of the line, a victorious shout came, followed by a loud and celebratory rapping of the old man’s cane. Felix laughed joyously, his tears feeling foolish on his cheeks. “Abuelito!,” he exclaimed, “You’re going to put yourself in an early grave. Settle down.”
“¡Nunca! Dios es bueno!”
Felix’s laughter echoed through the room. It reminded Caleb of that laughing fit they had experienced in Tenochtitlan; it was an uncomplicated, lovely sound, and Caleb knew how close he had come to never hearing that sweet laughter again. A slow chill crept through him, though he kept up his smile as Felix explained to Vicente what had happened - in as much detail as he was allowed - and where he was. “The hospital,” Vicente murmured worriedly, “You’re well aren’t you, hijo?”
“Ah, it’s just a precaution. They said I was suffering from, uhm…”
“Chronic fatigue syndrome,” Caleb supplied.
“Chronic fatigue syndrome,” Felix parroted. He listened and then, “No, I’ll be out in a couple of days, abuelito. Then we’ll be coming home.” It went on for a few more minutes, Felix listening patiently, every now and again answering with an affirmation. “Caleb is here. Mhm. You want to talk to him?”
Caleb took the phone from his lover. “Hey, old man,” he said jovially, “You taking care of yourself?”
“God Bless you, Caleb Bennett,” Vicente gushed, and Caleb doubted he had ever heard so much deep emotion in his strong, nicotine scratched voice. “Gracias a Dios por ti. You kept him safe.”
Caleb felt some guilt at the words, but he accepted them humbly. There was no need to burden the man with all that had happened, with how horribly he had failed. There would be time for that later, though he doubted he or Felix would ever possess the courage to tell Vicente of just what they had gone through. It seemed too heavy for their lips to hold. “Yeah, I’ll be bringing him home soon, don’t worry.”
“I have faith in the both of you,” Vicente explained gruffly. His voice brightened as he continued, “There was a woman in here looking for you. A beautiful woman. I thought at first you had been sneaking around on my Felix, but she said she was your sister?”
“Dorothy,” Caleb nearly groaned, “Shit.”
Felix hid quiet chuckles in his palm. This was going to be good. Caleb had completely forgotten to call his sister. When Dorothy got her hands on him… The chuckles dried out when he thought of what the woman would do to his kinky haired man. He would probably have to be identified by his dental records.
“She reminded me of my pequeña flor,” Vicente almost mourned. It was the first time he had heard the man speak of his late wife, and his longing for her was palpable, almost a sweet black shadow clinging to his words. “Such strong, lovely eyes.” He laughed, “It was hard to believe she was related to you.”
“Thanks, I get that a lot.”
“She was worried about you. I told the poor dear that you had probably just forgotten to get in touch with her, and she said ‘The only thing Caleb Bennett cares about is Caleb Bennett, I would be none too surprised.’ Ah, what a woman she is.”
“Calm down your hormones, Vicente, you’re grossing me out.”
Felix quirked an eyebrow at this, mouthing a question at his lover, who waved at him dismissively. “I’ll call her as soon as I hang up with you, if that’s what you’re fishing for. I… had a lot on my mind,” Caleb explained, flicking his eyes to Felix.
“You boys deserve some rest,” Vicente told him sternly, “And you deserve some selfishness as well. You owe the world nothing for what you did.”
“Vicente,” Caleb nearly groaned, shifting a bit.
“I’m embarrassing you,” Vicente chuckled, “I’ll let you be. Tell your hermana that she is free to visit me whenever she likes. I need a bit more loveliness in my life.”
After Caleb hung up with the man, Felix pounced on him immediately with a flurry of questions. Caleb dodged what he could, but ultimately had to admit that the crafty old man was a little sweet on his sister. Felix seemed both charmed and disturbed by the idea, and hastily changed the subject by reminding Caleb he had promised to call Dorothy.
Vicente and Dorothy…
Yuck.
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“Yes, I assumed that you had neglected to call me. After all, I was only worried that you had died on some God forsaken coastal road, or had your head sawn off by one of those horrid drug cartel members. But Caleb Bennett cannot be bothered.”
The sarcasm in her voice was like being slapped. Caleb realized he was wincing, unconsciously, and purposefully straightened his face. He felt like a little boy, forced to sit in a corner with a pointed dunce cap on his head; and he had to remind himself that he was a grown man, and no longer at this woman’s mercy.
But of course, he was. And he always would be.
“Dotty---”
“I was only sick with worry,” Dorothy told him, and while her brother was sure she meant to sound reproachful and stern, her voice betrayed her. She was crying. The realization was surreal in a way, he had never seen - or head - his sister cry. Caleb listened to the heavy labor of her breath on the other end as she tried to compose herself, but when she spoke next, her voice was jagged and tearful. “I thought I had lost you. Doesn’t that mean anything to you, Caleb?”
The lakeside, the fear, the hollowness. Caleb closed his eyes. “Yes,” he told her gently, “I’m sorry, Dotty. I…”
“Please just come home,” Dorothy sighed, “Please.”
“Soon. Felix is in the hospital, we---”
“Hospital,” Dorothy interrupted, “What’s happened to him?”
“Nothing serious,” he assured her, “They want to keep him here for a couple more days for fatigue.”
“Well, it’s no surprise,” she lectured, “The way the two of you run around all the time. Honestly, you’re wearing the poor thing out. His grandfather couldn’t have been more terrified for him; I hope you’ve at least contacted the old dear.”
“Yeah, we just talked to him. He took a shine to you.”
“Oh,” Dorothy murmured, and Caleb could almost hear the pleased smile in her voice. “He was a sweetheart. Also a horrible flirt. I do hope his grandson doesn’t take too much after him.”
“He does, actually.”
“You’re in trouble then. A man that charming, there’s no help for you.”
Of course there wasn’t. Caleb had been helpless the moment he had laid eyes on the man. He had thought, when he had first seen Felix, that he had never seen anyone more beautiful. A man of solid reality and staunch cynicism, the feelings of breathlessness and strong desire had seemed ridiculous and dangerous. But then, loving Felix was a dangerous thing. His eyes and his hands and his mouth held the power to shelter him, and the power to destroy him. Caleb accepted the danger, for just the nearness of him.
“As long as I know you’re safe, I suppose I can wait a few more days. Just try and stay safe.”
“You’re making Mexico sound like Jurassic Park. We’re fine.”
For the next five minutes, Caleb suffered his sister’s lamentations of the land. Citing it as a place of drugs, murder, kidnapping, and other nefarious deeds. The writer smiled as he watched a little girl, no more than three, totter over to her mother and grab onto her leg. The woman reached down and stroked a pigtail with loving distractedness, laughing with the receptionist. Yes, this land was truly horrible.
“And don’t even get me started on the corrupt police force, it’s amazing they even… Caleb, are you listening to me?”
“No.”
Surprisingly, Dorothy laughed. “I’m glad to hear your voice,” she told him softly, as though the admission of such a thing would damn her. “And I’m glad to hear you sounding so strong.” There was brief hesitation, and then, “I love you, Caleb.”
“I love you too, Dot. I’ll be home soon.”
“Take care of that man of yours.”
Caleb peeked into Felix’s room, watching him doze lightly, the sunlight golden against his face. He smiled, “I will.”
<~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~>
“I got us on a flight tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock.”
“Ah, what an unGodly hour,” Felix murmured from his place on the bed. He stretched out his legs and slowly curled and relaxed his toes. Caleb admired the shape of him, the delicious bit of flesh that exposed itself to him as Felix’s shirt rode up on his belly. It was over for him then, he crawled on top of the musician and worked his way into his mouth. Felix laughed and groaned against him, and Caleb heard a small noise as a flip-flop fell from one dangling foot.
The writer rocked himself against Felix, swinging an arm out to turn out the light. His hand knocked something, and he watched Felix’s hideous lamp - the one he had begrudgingly purchased in that market a thousand years before - wobble on the nightstand. “Careful with that,” Felix said, but his hands were shifting beneath Caleb’s shirt and running through his soft, thick hair. “You paid quite a bit for it.”
“I hate it,” Caleb grinned, and he shivered as Felix licked his teeth.
There was no ceremony to it, and absolutely no gentleness. They collided together in a breathless rush, both of them desperate and begging. Felix cried out his name and arched upwards, his thighs closing around Caleb’s hips, slippery smooth. His head tilted back sharply, Caleb biting and sucking at the line of his jaw, their noises animal.
The writer was sure that he had never been so aware of a lover’s body than he was that night. Every tremble and sound and warm flash of his eyes captured his senses. When his orgasm came, it was slow and exquisite, almost painful. And he panted into Felix’s ear as the shock and heat ran through his body; “Never leave me.”
No, Felix breathed, or thought he breathed, but the word was only a scream in his mind as he came. His bare foot curled at the back of Caleb’s thigh, and he only knew he was crying when Caleb kissed the tears from his face.
The night was quiet around them. They lay spooned together, Caleb pressed against Felix’s back. And when sleep finally came, it was thin and troubled. He awoke during the night with cold tears cresting in his eyes, clutching Felix desperately.
The lakeside burned behind his eyes.
Rating: NC-17; sexuality and sensuality, nudity, violent and disturbing imagery
Word Count: (Chapter) 5422; Novel (98001)
Disclaimer: Vestige and all related characters (c) Elizabeth Thornhill. Do not distribute this story without my express consent. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Chapter Thirty
The first thing he was aware of was the sand in his mouth. The second was the noise.
When he and Felix had arrived on the lakeside, it had been unnaturally still and silent. The very air had felt heavy and oppressive, Caleb could remember. The simple step onto the sand had felt like crossing through the threshold to some other world. A world he had long sensed and never dared enter. Now, however, he could hear the birds singing and the low buzzing of the crickets. He could feel the difference in the air, no longer cloying and thick.
The writer rose slowly to his knees, spitting the sand from his mouth and scrubbing roughly at his cracked lips. His bleary eyes searched the jungle edge before him, but he found nothing but darkness. And yet, it was a not a malicious or threatening darkness. It radiated none of the macabre danger it once had. Caleb knew that Montezuma was dead, that Tenochtitlan had died with him. The fire in his heart for the emperor softened to dull embers. What good would it do to damn the man? Montezuma was gone, and he had succeeded in ridding himself of the man’s curse.
The betrayal of the past has been rectified, and your blood has been cleansed. Leave this place now, Caleb. Nothing remains for you here. So Cortes had told him, but Caleb did not feel cleansed or absolved. He did not feel prideful of his victory over the emperor; he felt nothing as he knelt there on the lakeside.
He looked very little like the brave, foolish man who had knelt in the same spot earlier with his lover. His face deeply strained and aged, smeared with blood and horror. His hair matted with tangles, his eyes bloodshot and hollow. He resembled some warrior who has barely survived the massacre. Not only for the gore of his condition, but the dominating apathy that hung around his eyes and the corners of his grim mouth.
His father had told him the supernatural did not exist, and Caleb had desperately wanted to believe him. Perhaps to appease him, but more likely it had been to gain some of his cold, elusive love. Of course, even as a child he had recognized the cowardice of the man. He had pitied his father for that cowardice, and for his inability to believe. Now he envied him. He wished that he had never been touched by the other world.
“I killed everything,” Caleb said, his voice queerly hollow. His bloodied fingers curled against his palms, and he looked down at them blankly. “I killed everything. Did I kill him? Did my love do nothing but destroy him?”
There was no answer from the maw of darkness before him.
“Why?,” Caleb asked, something trembling through his droning voice. Something horrendously painful that he could not unleash. If he allowed what churned inside of him to break free, he would go crazy. “Why did you just leave me here? Didn’t I… Didn’t I do what needed to be done? Answer me.” His fist slammed against the sand, the pain radiating up his arm and through his healed shoulder. He could feel his control slipping, and he could not pull himself back from the edge. He could only look into that darkness with indignant, cheated anger swelling his heart and poisoning his cleansed blood. “Answer me!”
Caleb didn’t know who he yelled at - for - on that deserted lakeside. Cortes, Montezuma, Olivia. They had all abandoned him.
You know what needs to be done, some part of him whispered. The last scrap of him that possessed some ounce of strength and courage. Wiping his bloody hand against the side of his face, Caleb nodded miserably. He felt the darkness before him spreading through him, shadowing his heart and the last vestige of his mind. He closed his eyes and let out a deep, slow sigh. “I have to bury him,” Caleb whispered, and the shadows abated some as bright pain pierced him. “With my, with my hands.”
He looked down at his palms. The blood and gore on them was evidence of what he had done. But his work was not through yet. With his dirtied hands he would bring some kind of end to the nightmare.
But he knew the nightmare would never end.
<~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~>
His knees quivered as he crossed the sand, but he forced himself forward. Felix’s body laid by the water, his hand still outstretched, his fingers still curled lightly against his palm. Almost beckoning his lover to come and put an end to things.
Do not abandon this love, Olivia had told him. Her touch had been cold, her eyes had been lost in sadness. In that strange moment, he had felt bolstered, almost immunized against the plague of Montezuma’s revenge. But he was defeated now. Helpless, hopeless, aimless. Loveless, and that was the hardest to bear. That he could not summon the sweet, fragile thing Felix had offered to him to the forefront of his heart. He could only collapse to his knees beside his still body and watch the dawn break over the lake.
He had been stupid to make his lover promises. And Felix had been stupid to believe them. What had they done but lain there together in the night, one with lies on his lips, and the other with foolish trust in his eyes? They had set out together with nothing but their love. Vicente had said it would shield them, but the old man had been wrong.
“You should have let me fall,” Caleb whispered. He spoke to the lifeless body of his love, but he kept his eyes trained on the water. “You should have let me end it, Felix. You…” His voice caught, and he wiped miserably and absently at his eyes. “You should’ve let me die.”
But neither of them had been willing to back down. Neither of them had been willing to let go; and this was what their love and courage had earned them.
Slowly, gingerly, Caleb shifted Felix onto his back. He watched Felix’s head tilt back bonelessly over his arm. Without thought, Caleb pressed a kiss to the line of his bearded jaw. His lips were lightly scratched there, but he remained. He did not possess the strength to move from him. He watched the dawn play on Felix’s face, light and shadow warring over his features, the latter being slowly dissolved. It struck him painfully how he had once watched the sun burn against his face in the morning. How Felix’s black eyes had opened to him, sleepy and warm and content.
Futilely, the writer pressed his fingertips to Felix’s throat, just beneath his jaw.
Beneath his touch, a thin, sporadic pulse beat.
He brought his hand away and studied it almost accusingly. All he could seem to hear, pounding through his brain like the tribal drums of Tenochtitlan, was Montezuma’s voice. Your love is dead. Your love is dead. Your love is dead.
Caleb groped desperately at Felix’s throat, pressing in at his jugular once more. For a moment, he could not find a pulse, and panic gripped him. Had he imagined it? Had he gone so crazy with grief that he had tricked himself? And then he felt the weak beat, and his body flooded with warmth. He did not ask himself how Felix could be alive, or why. He did the only thing he could think of to do.
He pressed his mouth to Felix’s dry lips, and he breathed into him.
He could remember his lover doing the same to him; his breath coming heavy and slow, his medallion swinging between them, a chilly tickle on Caleb’s chest. And he had felt electrified by the breath, a perfect storm of eerie eroticism and empowering passion. Caleb leaned over his lover and breathed into him as if he could fill his wasted lungs with his breath.
Caleb did not feel his tears, but he saw his vision blur and watched the drops land on Felix’s cheek. His hands found the man’s wrists, squeezing them tightly, thumbs searching for his pulse. Stronger now, or just an illusion? Just a manifestation of the writer’s desperation?
No. Stronger. Steadier. As he had not questioned the presence of that pulse, he did not question its strengthening. He closed his eyes and filled his lover with his breath, feeling himself growing light-headed, but unable to stop himself. In his mind, he saw he and Felix standing on the marble of Tenochtitlan, their mouths joined together, the air heavy and electric around them. Think of that as a booster shot against monsters.
Aware that he was making animal noises - deep, growling, desperate sounds that warred between despair and aggression - Caleb pushed his tongue into Felix’s mouth. It was not an erotic meeting, but a purposeful one. And he could feel the air losing its peacefulness, growing into that electric, frantic, crushing air from the empire. Not Montezuma’s atmosphere, but theirs.
Gently, Felix’s tongue curled against his, and Caleb clamped down tightly on his wrists. His pulse throbbed strongly. For a moment, he could not differentiate between that pulse and the beat of the splinter. Both held the same strength and steadiness, both carried the weight of his hope.
Head swimming, vision blurred with tears, lungs deeply shuddering, the writer left his lover’s lips. He found Felix’s mouth gaped slightly, lips damp. His coal eyes were half-open, hazy but aware. The musician spoke only four words to him, his voice weak and hoarse and more beautiful than Caleb remembered.
“Are they burning again?”
Caleb could not look away from his eyes, could not remove his hands from Felix’s wrists. He could not move their mouths more than a few inches apart. He felt the heat of Felix’s breath against his mouth as he asked the question, and his body trembled with relief.
“Yeah,” Caleb answered, shadowing Felix with the fall of his body. “They’re burning again.”
He led Felix’s wrist to his mouth, pressed a kiss against his pulse.
“Just for us, Felix.”
<~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~>
For five days, Felix was held captive in St. Augustine’s Mercy. Perhaps ‘captive’ was a bit too strong, but after the third day sitting up in bed and watching the world outside his window, he began to grow impatient and restless. The hospital was reputedly the best in Mexico City, but he felt fine and wanted to go home. Whenever he expressed this desire to Caleb, the man would smile wanly and press a kiss against his wrist. It seemed to be his new favorite spot.
Felix wished he would have found a lower spot to apply his lips. He desired that almost as much as he desired to return home.
He listened to his lover tell him of Montezuma’s end. Felix grew animated when the man spoke of Montezuma almost overcoming him, going so far as to punch Caleb’s shoulder forcefully. “Ah, you were ready to give up again, querido. And don’t look at me like that. I promised you a punch.”
His joie de vivre faded when Caleb spoke of Cortes. The writer watched his lover turn his face away, the gray sky outside painting drably on his features. “I felt him in the darkness with me,” Felix said quietly. His hand stroked at his throat, unconsciously searching for the comfort of his medallion. When he realized it was gone, his fingers slipped down to his side. “I heard him,” he continued, and he smiled sadly. “He told me I couldn’t die.”
“Felix,” Caleb whispered, scooting himself a little closer and taking the man’s hands into his own. He traced his touch lightly over his lover’s calluses. “I don’t… I mean, I couldn’t…”
“Ah, don’t,” Felix murmured, leading one of his ensnared hands to Caleb’s hair, stroking his curls gently. “It’s all right, mi corazon. I’m here with you.”
Caleb inched a little closer, chuckling when Felix’s brow arched. “No, no, you wouldn’t,” Felix dodged, but Caleb caught the little flicker in his eye. Impish and daring. “You wouldn’t kiss a man laid up in the hospital, mi amor.”
Caleb chased his lips and caught them, running his thumb up Felix’s jaw line, cradling the back of his neck. The kiss was slightly tentative on Felix’s end, before he melted into it, running his tongue out against Caleb’s teeth, grazing his own teeth against the writer’s lips.
“No, no!,” a woman reprimanded, the soft leather soles of her shoes slapping against the linoleum. Caleb felt his shoulder swatted with a clip-board. “No kiss, no kiss!” The writer abandoned his lover’s mouth, feeling his face flush, only growing redder when Felix laughed.
“Not funny,” the nurse opined gravely, pointing seriously at her patient. “You should control him better, Felix.”
Felix held up his hands. “He attacked me. What could I do?”
“Oh my God,” Caleb groaned.
The nurse rested her hand to Felix’s forehead. She was a small, plump woman with fingers that seemed to always be cold. Of course, she knew that, because she always smiled a bit when Felix started and gasped under her touch. She wasn’t a cruel woman, but she was severe. Her critical eyes reminded Caleb of Dorothy. Felix had commented that at least Dorothy had a nice rear end, which had earned a disgusted groan from his lover.
“¿Necesitas algo?”
“No, gracias.”
The woman smiled at him, some of the harshness of her face softening. She looked to Caleb, and the edges sharpened once more. Of course he knew she didn’t care for him, she had made it quite obvious. But he flashed her a wide grin all the same; just like his sister, allowing her to smell fear was a horrible mistake. “Mm, de nada,” the nurse returned, keeping her eyes centered on the white man’s face. “You behave yourself,” she told him gravely, jabbing her finger at him with each word. “Yes?”
“Yes,” Caleb agreed.
Reasonably satisfied with his compliance, the woman left them alone. She left them in silence, that was only interrupted with a quiet cough from Felix and Caleb scuffing his sneakers against the linoleum. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but it did carry a hefty weight. It seemed to both of them that the silence demanded from them something they could not give. To offer some kind of absolution to what they had done, to implant it with some kind of nobility. But neither of them could seem to muster the strength.
They were alive, and together. Everything else seemed secondary, seemed to feebly stand on nothing bur principle. After surviving such an ordeal, after all that they had seen and touched and done, shouldn’t they have talked of it all? Rehashed the entire journey into the twisted land, opened their hearts and bared their souls?
No. Because all that had transpired was written on their faces. It was reflected in their eyes as their gazes locked. It was spoken in their touches, as Caleb cupped Felix’s cheek and stroked his thumb over his warm skin. As Felix nuzzled against his palm and took loose hold of his wrist. In the end, Montezuma had not possessed the strength to kill their love. And that would have to prove enough to content them.
But there was something…
“I love you,” Felix said quietly.
The words seemed to warm a part of the writer that had remained cold; a part that had remained behind on that deserted lakeside. He leaned in and pressed a small kiss to Felix’s lips. “Ah, no,” Felix chuckled, but he wrapped his arms around Caleb’s neck and pulled him closer. “You heard the lady, querido. Control yourself.”
“Mm, screw that,” Caleb grinned, “I want some sugar.”
Their lips touched, and Felix’s arms folded tighter around his neck. The musician felt his heart flutter, and for some reason, his thoughts were not dominated by that beautiful, deadly land they had ventured into. It was not filled with that rooftop where the sky had been painted magenta and the body of his lover had fallen against it. It was filled with then. He was consumed by the moment, and Felix could hardly breath through the kiss, breaking it and pressing his face against Caleb’s shoulder.
Neither of them spoke. Caleb held him and tucked his nose against his hair. Felix drowsed some on his shoulder in the silence, smaller and more fragile than Caleb had ever seen him. The nurse returned with a tray of food, looked at the two querulously, but left without a word. Caleb appreciated that, he doubted he would have let go of the man even if the woman had beaten him over the head with her damn clipboard.
I breathed life into him, Caleb thought, but it seemed only half-true. He breathed life into me. Yes, that was what Felix had done. He had found Caleb in his selfish and dismal depression, and he had breathed some of his sweetness into him. It had not been an act of fate that they had come together, but it had not been pure chance. They had been two lonely men in a lonely world; and when they had drawn together, the threat of blood and dark dreams had not been enough to tear them apart.
“When I thought I’d lost you,” Caleb murmured, “I wasn’t alive.”
“Mm…,” Felix drew in a breath deeply, turning his face a bit to rest on Caleb’s throat. “Did you say something, querido?”
“Yeah, I said you need to eat and then get some sleep. I’ll run down to the cafeteria and see if they have any of that rancid potato salad left. At this point I’m hungry enough to eat my own foot.”
“M’not hungry,” Felix whispered.
“Sleep, then,” Caleb directed, slowly guiding Felix down to the bed. Sunlight brushed briefly against his cheeks before bending to shadow. Caleb studied him closely, almost transfixed by him. He put his lips against Felix’s brow. “I think you’ve earned a little rest.”
“You too,” Felix mumbled.
“No rest for the wicked, baby.”
A faint smile lifted Felix’s lips. “We’ve seen wickedness, lover,” he said, and Caleb could hear the tired pain just beneath his drowsy cadence. He wondered what Montezuma had shown Felix, what past agony he had unburied in the musician’s heart; but he knew it was not for him to know. Again, Caleb’s mouth touched the inside of Felix’s wrist, where he could feel his pulse strongly beating. “Get some sleep, baby. I’ll be---”
“No,” Felix pleaded, grabbing the man blindly. “Stay with me. Until I fall asleep?” There was something infinitely childish and sad in the request, but of course Caleb couldn’t deny him. He had never been able to, and he doubted he ever would.
“Okay. Relax. I’m right here.”
Felix’s eyes opened to him, heavy hooded and dreamy. “Donde fuego hubo cenizas quedan,” he said, softly and slowly. Caleb felt a chill from the words; even if he did not understand them, he felt deeply impacted by them. “Where there was fire,” Felix continued gently, “There is ash.”
“More philosophies,” Caleb smiled.
“My mama used to tell me that when I was little. She was bitter about it, but it’s true. We left a piece of ourselves back in that land. I wonder how much of it we brought with us.”
A chill ran up Caleb’s spine. “You need to sleep,” he heard himself say, “You’re not making any sense.”
“You’re a racist.”
“Sleep,” Caleb insisted, his smile resurfacing, though it felt a little plastic on his face. “Don’t make me get physical with you.”
“Ahh, wouldn’t that be nice,” Felix murmured, before he finally obeyed Caleb and drifted to sleep. For a long while, Caleb sat there in the quiet. Until the sunshine that filled the room darkened. The low pain in his stomach, clamoring for food, went ignored. He thought of what Felix had said, about how much they had left of themselves in Tenochtitlan; of how much they had taken from the place. Had they branded themselves with some supernatural taint? Or was it something as simple as a haunting memory they took with them?
In either instance, there was nothing he could do about it. He was desperately weary from all of the analyzing, and he simply ignored the clamoring of his mind as he did the low sounds in his stomach. He moved himself into the chair beside Felix’s bed, and curled his large body in it awkwardly. Caleb craned his neck, trying to find a comfortable position, but found the exercise useless. He slumped his head on his shoulder and reached out for Felix’s hand, holding it loosely and brushing his thumb over his pulse.
He was obsessed now with verifying Felix’s reality. It was understandable, but at the same time, it was dangerous.
Caleb sighed and closed his eyes, forcing his fingers to leave Felix’s wrist and stroke against his open palm. The darkness came to collect him. In his dreams he found the lakeside. The moon glared down overhead, and he was sobbing as his hands tore into the sand, digging a grave, the sand coarse and painful under his nails.
Beyond the darkness, his hand seized Felix’s wrist once more.
<~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~>
“Hijo.” The voice on the other end of the line was hoarse and tremulous, heavy with emotion. Felix’s head reclined with the tone, his eyes growing hot and moist. “Soy yo, abuelito,” Felix returned quietly, his own voice trembling slightly. He felt Caleb brush his bangs back from his forehead, his lips pressing warmly and comfortingly against the skin. “We did it,” Felix continued, and from the other end of the line, a victorious shout came, followed by a loud and celebratory rapping of the old man’s cane. Felix laughed joyously, his tears feeling foolish on his cheeks. “Abuelito!,” he exclaimed, “You’re going to put yourself in an early grave. Settle down.”
“¡Nunca! Dios es bueno!”
Felix’s laughter echoed through the room. It reminded Caleb of that laughing fit they had experienced in Tenochtitlan; it was an uncomplicated, lovely sound, and Caleb knew how close he had come to never hearing that sweet laughter again. A slow chill crept through him, though he kept up his smile as Felix explained to Vicente what had happened - in as much detail as he was allowed - and where he was. “The hospital,” Vicente murmured worriedly, “You’re well aren’t you, hijo?”
“Ah, it’s just a precaution. They said I was suffering from, uhm…”
“Chronic fatigue syndrome,” Caleb supplied.
“Chronic fatigue syndrome,” Felix parroted. He listened and then, “No, I’ll be out in a couple of days, abuelito. Then we’ll be coming home.” It went on for a few more minutes, Felix listening patiently, every now and again answering with an affirmation. “Caleb is here. Mhm. You want to talk to him?”
Caleb took the phone from his lover. “Hey, old man,” he said jovially, “You taking care of yourself?”
“God Bless you, Caleb Bennett,” Vicente gushed, and Caleb doubted he had ever heard so much deep emotion in his strong, nicotine scratched voice. “Gracias a Dios por ti. You kept him safe.”
Caleb felt some guilt at the words, but he accepted them humbly. There was no need to burden the man with all that had happened, with how horribly he had failed. There would be time for that later, though he doubted he or Felix would ever possess the courage to tell Vicente of just what they had gone through. It seemed too heavy for their lips to hold. “Yeah, I’ll be bringing him home soon, don’t worry.”
“I have faith in the both of you,” Vicente explained gruffly. His voice brightened as he continued, “There was a woman in here looking for you. A beautiful woman. I thought at first you had been sneaking around on my Felix, but she said she was your sister?”
“Dorothy,” Caleb nearly groaned, “Shit.”
Felix hid quiet chuckles in his palm. This was going to be good. Caleb had completely forgotten to call his sister. When Dorothy got her hands on him… The chuckles dried out when he thought of what the woman would do to his kinky haired man. He would probably have to be identified by his dental records.
“She reminded me of my pequeña flor,” Vicente almost mourned. It was the first time he had heard the man speak of his late wife, and his longing for her was palpable, almost a sweet black shadow clinging to his words. “Such strong, lovely eyes.” He laughed, “It was hard to believe she was related to you.”
“Thanks, I get that a lot.”
“She was worried about you. I told the poor dear that you had probably just forgotten to get in touch with her, and she said ‘The only thing Caleb Bennett cares about is Caleb Bennett, I would be none too surprised.’ Ah, what a woman she is.”
“Calm down your hormones, Vicente, you’re grossing me out.”
Felix quirked an eyebrow at this, mouthing a question at his lover, who waved at him dismissively. “I’ll call her as soon as I hang up with you, if that’s what you’re fishing for. I… had a lot on my mind,” Caleb explained, flicking his eyes to Felix.
“You boys deserve some rest,” Vicente told him sternly, “And you deserve some selfishness as well. You owe the world nothing for what you did.”
“Vicente,” Caleb nearly groaned, shifting a bit.
“I’m embarrassing you,” Vicente chuckled, “I’ll let you be. Tell your hermana that she is free to visit me whenever she likes. I need a bit more loveliness in my life.”
After Caleb hung up with the man, Felix pounced on him immediately with a flurry of questions. Caleb dodged what he could, but ultimately had to admit that the crafty old man was a little sweet on his sister. Felix seemed both charmed and disturbed by the idea, and hastily changed the subject by reminding Caleb he had promised to call Dorothy.
Vicente and Dorothy…
Yuck.
<~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~>
“Yes, I assumed that you had neglected to call me. After all, I was only worried that you had died on some God forsaken coastal road, or had your head sawn off by one of those horrid drug cartel members. But Caleb Bennett cannot be bothered.”
The sarcasm in her voice was like being slapped. Caleb realized he was wincing, unconsciously, and purposefully straightened his face. He felt like a little boy, forced to sit in a corner with a pointed dunce cap on his head; and he had to remind himself that he was a grown man, and no longer at this woman’s mercy.
But of course, he was. And he always would be.
“Dotty---”
“I was only sick with worry,” Dorothy told him, and while her brother was sure she meant to sound reproachful and stern, her voice betrayed her. She was crying. The realization was surreal in a way, he had never seen - or head - his sister cry. Caleb listened to the heavy labor of her breath on the other end as she tried to compose herself, but when she spoke next, her voice was jagged and tearful. “I thought I had lost you. Doesn’t that mean anything to you, Caleb?”
The lakeside, the fear, the hollowness. Caleb closed his eyes. “Yes,” he told her gently, “I’m sorry, Dotty. I…”
“Please just come home,” Dorothy sighed, “Please.”
“Soon. Felix is in the hospital, we---”
“Hospital,” Dorothy interrupted, “What’s happened to him?”
“Nothing serious,” he assured her, “They want to keep him here for a couple more days for fatigue.”
“Well, it’s no surprise,” she lectured, “The way the two of you run around all the time. Honestly, you’re wearing the poor thing out. His grandfather couldn’t have been more terrified for him; I hope you’ve at least contacted the old dear.”
“Yeah, we just talked to him. He took a shine to you.”
“Oh,” Dorothy murmured, and Caleb could almost hear the pleased smile in her voice. “He was a sweetheart. Also a horrible flirt. I do hope his grandson doesn’t take too much after him.”
“He does, actually.”
“You’re in trouble then. A man that charming, there’s no help for you.”
Of course there wasn’t. Caleb had been helpless the moment he had laid eyes on the man. He had thought, when he had first seen Felix, that he had never seen anyone more beautiful. A man of solid reality and staunch cynicism, the feelings of breathlessness and strong desire had seemed ridiculous and dangerous. But then, loving Felix was a dangerous thing. His eyes and his hands and his mouth held the power to shelter him, and the power to destroy him. Caleb accepted the danger, for just the nearness of him.
“As long as I know you’re safe, I suppose I can wait a few more days. Just try and stay safe.”
“You’re making Mexico sound like Jurassic Park. We’re fine.”
For the next five minutes, Caleb suffered his sister’s lamentations of the land. Citing it as a place of drugs, murder, kidnapping, and other nefarious deeds. The writer smiled as he watched a little girl, no more than three, totter over to her mother and grab onto her leg. The woman reached down and stroked a pigtail with loving distractedness, laughing with the receptionist. Yes, this land was truly horrible.
“And don’t even get me started on the corrupt police force, it’s amazing they even… Caleb, are you listening to me?”
“No.”
Surprisingly, Dorothy laughed. “I’m glad to hear your voice,” she told him softly, as though the admission of such a thing would damn her. “And I’m glad to hear you sounding so strong.” There was brief hesitation, and then, “I love you, Caleb.”
“I love you too, Dot. I’ll be home soon.”
“Take care of that man of yours.”
Caleb peeked into Felix’s room, watching him doze lightly, the sunlight golden against his face. He smiled, “I will.”
<~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~>
“I got us on a flight tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock.”
“Ah, what an unGodly hour,” Felix murmured from his place on the bed. He stretched out his legs and slowly curled and relaxed his toes. Caleb admired the shape of him, the delicious bit of flesh that exposed itself to him as Felix’s shirt rode up on his belly. It was over for him then, he crawled on top of the musician and worked his way into his mouth. Felix laughed and groaned against him, and Caleb heard a small noise as a flip-flop fell from one dangling foot.
The writer rocked himself against Felix, swinging an arm out to turn out the light. His hand knocked something, and he watched Felix’s hideous lamp - the one he had begrudgingly purchased in that market a thousand years before - wobble on the nightstand. “Careful with that,” Felix said, but his hands were shifting beneath Caleb’s shirt and running through his soft, thick hair. “You paid quite a bit for it.”
“I hate it,” Caleb grinned, and he shivered as Felix licked his teeth.
There was no ceremony to it, and absolutely no gentleness. They collided together in a breathless rush, both of them desperate and begging. Felix cried out his name and arched upwards, his thighs closing around Caleb’s hips, slippery smooth. His head tilted back sharply, Caleb biting and sucking at the line of his jaw, their noises animal.
The writer was sure that he had never been so aware of a lover’s body than he was that night. Every tremble and sound and warm flash of his eyes captured his senses. When his orgasm came, it was slow and exquisite, almost painful. And he panted into Felix’s ear as the shock and heat ran through his body; “Never leave me.”
No, Felix breathed, or thought he breathed, but the word was only a scream in his mind as he came. His bare foot curled at the back of Caleb’s thigh, and he only knew he was crying when Caleb kissed the tears from his face.
The night was quiet around them. They lay spooned together, Caleb pressed against Felix’s back. And when sleep finally came, it was thin and troubled. He awoke during the night with cold tears cresting in his eyes, clutching Felix desperately.
The lakeside burned behind his eyes.