Arthur considered suicide. He hummed
tonelessly, turning the various options over in his mind as he sought
the perfect one. Gas was too uncertain, a gun too messy. As he was
mulling the pros and cons of a simple overdose, it came to him.
“What are you thinking so hard
about?" His brother's voice burst the bubble of Arthur's near
epiphany.
“Why are we doing this? Fishing has
got to be the most boring activity on the planet. I doubt there's
even any fish in this lake." After deftly parrying Martin's question
with one of his own he didn't wait around for the answer, picking up
his rod and meandering down the bank.
“Where are you going?” His
brother's anxious call prickled the hairs on the back of Arthur's
neck. The man had eyes, it should be obvious. Instead of replying he
merely shrugged, tilting his head in the direction he was heading.
“Well don't go far,” the relentless voice continued. “We need
to leave soon.”
He breathed a sigh of relief when he
made it far enough around the curve of the lake's edge to be unseen
and unheard. The constant, none too secret, surveillance his family
and friends had him under left him struggling to breathe. He
continued pushing his way through the tangled deadfall that lay just
shy of the water until he was certain he hadn't been followed.
Arthur stretched out on a flat rock,
pulling out the sketchbook he'd stuffed in his pants and digging in
the bottom of his tackle box for a stick of charcoal. For the
thousandth time his hand began to trace lines more familiar than his
own face.
“You have to stop this.” The
tenuous whisper brushed his cheek, a wavering touch like a moth
taking flight.
“You know I've tried.” Arthur also
knew his words fell on jaded ears. “Just one last time.”
“You keep saying that.” The voice
was stronger now, the smudges on the page dancing in sympathy. “You
need to let me go.”
His fingers caressed the contours of a
sharp cheekbone, translating the velvety nap of the well worked paper
into silky flesh. “How can I possibly do that? Without this, I have
nothing.”
“I am nothing. You and I both know
I'm not real.” The mournful tone was in sharp contrast to the hand
rubbing a soothing circle between Arthur's shoulder blades. “I know
you're planning something. Are you going to fill me in?”
“No, it isn't important.” It
wasn't really a lie. The sensation of his desire made flesh was
enough to override his urge for self-destruction. “I just want to
enjoy our time together.”
“You need a living, breathing,
lover, not some smeary lines on a torn piece of paper.” Shadowed
hands slid over Arthur's arms, goose flesh rising in their wake.
“This is a fantasy.”
“Mmhmmm,” he hummed idly, turning
to capture plump, velvety lips with his own. The kiss was warm and
deep, sending electric sparks tumbling down his spine in his own
personal fireworks display. The urge to deepen the connection was
irresistible, and so their tongues slid against each other, neither
willing to yield. Arthur had never before felt such an irresistible
yearning, the taste was addictive, overwhelming, and marked him as
clearly as the graphite streaks darkening his lips and winding their
way across his torso.
His breath caught, time slowing to a
crawl as a gossamer hand wrapped around his burgeoning erection. Two
rough strokes, hot silk and electricity spiraling up his spine and
tearing loose a rough groan. “Oh
gods, yes.”
A needy moan escaped his throat when a
hard cock pressed urgently against his and that maddening hand
returned to wrap around them both. A hot mouth latched onto his
nipple as his lover began to stroke, hand squeezing slightly as they
thrust together. Their mouths mated, swallowing twin gasps as a thumb
swiped through pearly drops of precum. A slick finger pushed through
his tight pucker and all coherent thought dissolved into a ragged
prayer to a deity Arthur had been certain he didn't believe in.
The slow slide of his lover's cock
seemed to go on for ever, impossibly deep, and he wondered if,
perhaps, the shadowy figure would disappear inside him completely.
After what seemed an eternity it reversed, taunting him with an
achingly slow rhythm. No matter how he squirmed and begged, the
measured pace never faltered. Each brush to his prostate tightened
the hot coil inside of him, and he felt his balls drawing up tighter
and tighter, like a spring ready for flight.
A ghostly hand wrapped loosely around
his erection, the light teasing strokes matching the pace of the
tongue ruthlessly mapping his mouth. Even now, Arthur spared a moment
for his obsession, deciding that forgetting to breathe due to
pleasure might, indeed, be the best way to die.
A hard thrust to his prostate pushed
him over the edge, molten lightning surging up from his balls as the
world greyed out around him. When his eyes fluttered open they met
with the heart-stopping sight of his lover daintily licking the seed
from his chest.
“Arthur, it's time to go.” His
brother's strident call broke through the spell he was under.
“Five more minutes. I'll meet you at
the car.” Another whirlwind of kisses and then he was stumbling
back through the brush, marks of his transgression starkly dappling
pale flesh.
He watched the judgment settle on
Martin's normally placid features, yet shrugged it off. The meddling
concerns of his so-called loved ones were of no regard in this.
“What?”
The tense silence blanketing the car
lifted only slightly. “You could at least pretend.” The
accusation was unexpected and Arthur considered it carefully before
answering.
“I could. Would that make it
better?”
“Better is relative. At least no one
could accuse me of complicity.” His brother was making the face
again, cheeks puffed out, brows drawn low, and forehead furrowed. It
was his serious face, the one that always telegraphed bad news. “Mom
wants to have you committed.”
“That isn't so easy.” Arthur's
glib reply did nothing to ease the tension and he wasn't surprised
when the car glided to a stop on the shoulder.
He didn't resist the hand cupping his
cheek, turning to regard the once mirror of Martin's features. “I
want to be on your side, you know I do. But I'm worried about you.”
“I'll be fine,” he soothed. “I'm
not hurting anyone. I know it can't go on forever. I'm just not ready
to stop yet. Soon, I promise.”
“You swear?”
“Cross my heart.” Sharp eyes
searched for the lie behind his words, but their inherent sincerity
must have been convincing. The car slid back into traffic, and Arthur
slid back into his contemplation of the perfect death.
The next few weeks were filled with
stolen moments and the search for epiphany. His friends stopped
meeting his gaze, eyes skittering past the bruised tones of his skin
to rest on the nothingness behind him. Their discomfort only fueled
his frantic quest to either hold on to what he had, or find a
permanent solution to his situation.
Even his lover pressured him, waiting
until he lay limp and boneless, still panting from his release. “You
can't continue on like this.”
“You sound like you don't want to be
here.” Arthur's hurt leaked into the words.
“I should say that.” A
surprisingly strong hand kneaded the muscles of his neck, and Arthur
turned away, forcing his limbs to stop trembling. “I should . . .
but I can't. I've come to care for you.”
The reluctant response, and the
brilliant smile it wrung from the usually somber Arthur, touched off
another round of heated kisses. Hands roamed over all the skin they
could reach, painting new marks of possession across creamy flesh.
Ironically, when he was most lost in
the embrace of his shadow lover, he was closest to the answer he so
desperately sought. Recognition simmered in the dark corners of his
mind, pushed into hiding by the intoxication of one more perfect
kiss.
When it hit him Arthur almost rejected
the idea. Too trite, too pat, too sappily sweet. But it called to
him, whispering in the long dark hours of the night, and piercing
through the drone of disapproval that blanketed his waking hours.
“What have you done?” The gossamer
whisper almost went unnoticed.
“I'm going to join you.” Arthur's
confession released the tight knot of lingering tension inside him.
“I've been planning it for a long time.”
“There is no me without you.” The
aching sadness in his phantom lover's voice had him searching the
familiar features, hoping he had misinterpreted. “I will miss you.”
Their last kiss. Arthur was torn
between laughing and crying, his shoulders shaking, the taste of
blood on his lips. He wanted to apologize but plump lips covered his,
the taste of blood growing stronger. Too late, he realized their
stolen kisses weren't enough, would never be enough. He couldn't
remember what his lover tasted like, so he cried harder.
“I'm tired,” Arthur's eyelids
drooped, fluttering in time with the beats of his heart.
“Then sleep.” The husky whisper
was infinitely gentle, shadow hands clutching him tightly. “Just
close your eyes and rest.”
“Kiss me again?” His eyes closed,
the lids giving up the battle to stay open, stress and pain softening
away.
“Dream of me. I'll kiss you when you
wake.”
