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Till only sees them as shadows in the corridor- black silhouettes on the classical, worn tapestry. The contours blend in with the faded, sewn figures, but Till recognizes one of them all too well.
Generous curves that would make any sculptor wild of lust to… portray. However, he doubts anyone would be able to do the beauty of the real person justice.
If he put effort into it, he might recognize the other, taller silhouette as well. He hesitates. To be honest, not much effort is needed. Of course, he recognizes the other shadow. Unfortunately.
Till has his voyeuristic sides, but he doesn’t feel the slightest temptation to linger, despite the demonstration of male beauty he knows he would get.
The laughter from the party is so loud that Till, for a second, gets the impression that he’s still in the main room. More or less hanging on his arm is a lovely young lady. To be honest, tonight, he isn’t particularly interested in her, but he needs the temporary distraction .
She can provide the casual sex he seeks these days, and that makes him sleep better.
Right now, he doesn’t want to dwell on old times when things were different. When he was younger and had a more idealistic way of looking at life.
Even then, sex was a separate coin for him, rarely combined with romance and conversation. Yet, a long time ago, there was an exception to that rule.
One time he had searched for something more behind a ribcage. He had not found not what he had expected, but he could never forget the treasure.
If you could call someone, that runs away when you don't run yourself, a treasure.
In a way easier, albeit painful too, to remember the deceit.
In the end, he doesn’t have sex with the girl he brought along that night. Breaking and throwing around tables and chairs suddenly feels like a much more fruitful idea and something he can go through with.
Instead of the girl that vanished somewhere during his furniture party, Flake and Oli drag him to bed hours later. Typically, Flake mutters something about the bill of broken furniture. It’s ridiculous. It’s not like they can’t afford it.
However, the next morning, his tip to the cleaning staff is more generous than ever.
___________________________________________________________________
(Two days later)
The words were wasps.
The sentence appears as if out of thin air. The words feel familiar somehow. Maybe he had read them somewhere. He can’t tell for sure, but he is certain they’re not his own. He wishes he could remember who the originator is.
“I miss our talks.”
Till halts his fast pace. He turns his head and looks at Richard over his shoulder.
He almost can’t believe what he sees. It’s hilarious. Despite the temperature, Richard is wearing all black and looks completely unaffected. It’s only noon. Hours to the concert. Combined with his black sunglasses, of course. He’s stunning, like a creature of the night combined with the classical Rock Star look.
The heat suddenly turns more intense. The sweat that has been dripping over him turns to cascades.
To cool himself, he blows air in front of his face. To no avail. His breath is as hot as the day.
Not even half as hot as the apparition in front of him, though.
Till often muses over how, as the years pass, Richard’s beauty changes, but never falters(exactly like the mix of pain and rejoicing in Till’s abdomen). It shouldn’t be possible, but it’s the opposite.
“What are you getting at, Richard? Did we talk?”
“Yes, didn’t we? From dusk to dawn, no sleep. Don’t you remember?”
Some kinds of pain Till can’t stand. Not even for a day. But of course, he remembers. Oh, how he remembers.
“Well. That wasn't all we did. But it’s not the same these days. We don’t need to talk like we did back then. We’re older now.”
A wasp passes by and buzzes in Till's ear. He tries to wave it away, but in the process, it stings his hand. Till doesn’t mind: that’s one type of good pain.
Richard flinches as if he is the one that got stung. Exactly like the wasp stung Till.
He removes his glasses and blinks.
He sees something else that hasn’t changed. The blue in Richard’s eyes, the dark, unnecessarily long lashes that cast shadows on the skin even in this light that is so bright and strong, like the sun is at its zenith.
“Why not?”
“Others have taken those places.”
Richard’s shoulders sink. “I’m sorry you see it as something so replaceable.” He bites his lip. “But you’re right, of course. But just because we may have found others to confide in, does it have to affect how we relate to each other?”
Till doesn’t answer. Instead, he rubs his hand. He isn’t sure, but maybe it has swelled a little.
“Did you get stung?”
So damn attentive, as always. Another thing that remains the same. Richard can appear like he’s full of himself sometimes, but he’s also very aware of other people's feelings. For bad or for good.
He even has a talent for seeing things with people they don’t see themselves.
Till does indeed want to avoid some kinds of pain. Like the ones that hurt others, for example. Still, as the fucked up person he is, he brings the wrong types on himself all the time. Like he wants to revel in them.
He doesn’t want to hurt Richard. But he has to keep him away,before he dives as deep under his skin as only he can. And if hurting him is the only way…
“Don’t bother. Now, can you please leave me alone?”
It doesn’t sound like a plea, more like a hard command. Asking for the opposite thing he wishes for is something Till has a talent for. Richard knows that.
And despite that, without a word, not a single displayed emotion, Richard turns his back and walks in the opposite direction with fast and determined steps, the heels of his boots drumming against the asphalt.
Till sighs. That was all too easy, and the soreness in his throat feels bitter.
The air trembles and turns blurry, like it’s boiling.
Till wishes, he could conjure up a multitude of wasps and make them all sting him. The inevitable pure, physical pain would be fine. He isn’t allergic to their venom.
As far as he knows anyway. He has been stung countless times during his life.
Words like wasps- he never got further than to the single sentence.
Never had he dwelled upon that words could act as the wasps.
He tries to hold on to the grain of inspiration when he also turns to walk in the same direction as Richard.
His sneakers are new, and he suddenly realizes how his heels hurt.
He swears between his teeth. Yet another pain he doesn’t search for.
And he doesn’t want to return to the hotel yet, where he has his kit with bandaids. The AC works fine and would soothe, but right now, he wants the heat.
He bends down and removes his shoes. It feels like a relief; as if he rescues his feet from a prison. His white socks have faint traces of blood.
When he walks, the asphalt burns the soles of his feet. He welcomes the sensation. It’s way better than the pressure on the blisters.
And there’s something with the texture on the ground below his feet. The sensation resembles sinking into sand, as if he is walking on dunes.
He continues to walk, until he actually reaches the beach area and finally is walking on sand for real.
The sand is warm, but, compared to the asphalt, cooler than he expected.
________________________________________________________
Is it a trick of the light, a mirage or has he, not unexpectedly he supposes, gotten a full-blown sunstroke?
Or does he, for real, see the naked back of Richard there, in what looks like a sheltered fold among the dunes? So well concealed from sight you have to walk real close to see?
Indeed, he does. Richard sits there, stripped naked to the waist, his coat and shirt beside him, right in the sand, as it seems, watching the blue glimpses of the ocean.
Till halts in his steps. He wipes his sweaty brow and takes a sip from the water flask. He grimaces. It is too warm, and he longs for water that is crystal clear, cold, and refreshing. Longs for ice.
Even from behind Richard is beautiful. His skin looks smooth and lean in the sunlight, without blemishes and scars. The classic sculpture, indeed.
“I know you’re there, Till,” Richard says, not moving a limb as he speaks.
“How?” It comes out as a hoarse whisper. He puts the bottle to his mouth again and takes a larger gulp this time.
“You would be the only one to stand there and just watch.”
Richard's voice is as cold as the water Till longed for. At the same time, the mere sound of his vocal cords is refreshing in a way it shouldn’t be.
“You’re worth looking at, but I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” he says.
He means it. Doesn’t he?
Richard's back is still turned against him. He makes no move as if to change position. The only reaction to his words Till can discern is a faint tense of his shoulders that soon is gone.
“You’re not disturbing,” Richard concludes, his voice both a caress and a sting. “I waited for you.”
The parallel is hilarious, but Till gets a fast-fleeing image of himself sitting beside a coffin, watching Richard in it. He’s older, alive- and still the most beautiful being he has ever seen.
“Waited for me?” Till repeats, at a loss for something else to say.
“Yes, I can still predict how you will take your strolls. At least, I was right this time. How is your hand?”
Till blinks to see clearly. Has he gotten sand into his eyes?
It feels off, communicating with a back.
With a grunt, he takes a look at his hand. He has forgotten about the wasp.
“It’s fine, not swollen and it doesn’t hurt at all any longer. “
The air is hot, and the breeze that caresses his face is too warm to bring soothing.
A thought strikes him.
“Have you put on sunscreen? The sun is aggressive this early in the summer.”
Richard shakes his head. “Of course. But I bet you haven’t?”
Till wants to answer that it doesn’t matter, that he has no plans to undress anyway. And besides, should he get a bit sunburned, it’s no big deal. He’s not particularly sensitive to the sun anyway. Well, he wouldn’t mind the pain would be a more correct way to put it.
He sits down in the sand, right behind Richard, which finally makes Richard turn his head to look at him.
He has put on his sunglasses again, so Till only can discern the contours of his eyes. It’s irritating, but Richard, admittedly, might even be more irritated. Till also wears sunglasses, but his lenses are blank, so Richard will only see himself.
Richard crosses his arms.
“Does it bother you that much? With whom do I share my bed?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you saw us - or, at least, what you thought you saw.”
“I saw shadows on the wall. Two silhouettes all too familiar.”
Richard turns around completely and leans forward, so close that their noses almost meet. Almost.
He grits through his teeth. “After what you said earlier today, is it your business?”
“Maybe not. I’m only a tad surprised at your choice.”
“Maybe I wasn’t the one that was actively choosing. Maybe I was chosen, and it just felt like a nice variation.”
Till can’t help clenching his jaw.
”And people get horny in the heat,” he says and Richard nods in confirmation. Richard is too close, but suddenly Till has run out of strength trying to push him away again, both literally and figuratively.
“Yes, and you can be trusted to know everything about that.”
It can be a joke, but the tone in Richard’s tells him otherwise.
Memories from a past that cause his heart to ache still today pass through Till’s head.
Without reflecting, he breaches the last millimeters between them and whispers: “Of course. And talking wasn’t all we used to do.”
A voice in the back of his head screams at him and interrogates him about why he does this- mere hours after he has denied pretty much the same thing.
Richard widens his eyes. Till knows he’s going to speak out exactly those questions.
So Till silences him in a way that is just as effective as it was back then.
Effective, for the time being.
____________________________________
The sand is too hot against their bodies. They’re not bothered about it at the moment anyway.
The wind that sweeps in from the sea has a salty tang, but the salty taste on Richard’s skin does not come from the water.
He runs his hands over every curve of Richard’s body, afraid to miss even the tiniest part. It’s fuller and richer. He can’t feel the bones beneath as easily as he could back then. Such a solid display of how time, and years, have passed.
Grains through their fingers, like the sand all around them, the clothes below them not doing much to stop the tiny particles from intruding.
The white liquid splashes on Richard’s spine and then glistens in the sun until Richard turns and wipes it away. The same white glide on his own back, so fast he never fully gathered how Richard used the physical speed and strength to switch them both around.
Putting on clothes is a pain afterward, springing both from sand and sunburned skin.
Aloe vera and air conditioning bring some relief to the hotel room, at least on the outside. He can’t help but marvel at them not going to their separate chambers. No, without a word, both of them instead went to Richard’s room.
He pushes Richard up against the wall, which elicits moans both from desire and pain from a sunburnt back. Richard hasn’t been as meticulous with the sunscreen as he claimed. Though, when he hesitates, Richard mutters between clenched teeth:
“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare stop now.”
Till has a vague idea he should leave afterward. He rises from the bed and walks over to the window. Orange dusk has fallen on the outside, and he suddenly wishes to stay.
That is a feeling he can’t even remotely stand.
Richard lies in the bed behind him, wrapped in the sheets, like he’s freezing, and wants to cover himself, although sweat glistens on his forehead and his shoulders. His dark spikes are in disarray, his face flushed both from the overdose of sun and their recent activities. Again, Till revels in how the blue of his eyes glitters behind the veil of his dark, long lashes. The corners of his mouth are turned upwards, but he looks sad, forlorn somehow.
Like he knows how Till’s thoughts go.
He can see how Richard’s hands tremble below the sheet. Till guesses, he needs a cigarette, but he doesn’t do anything to get himself a smoke.
While Till wants to stop time there, and yet, he can’t stand the ache in his chest.
He’s so beautiful Till relates to Camus’ thoughts about beauty being unbearable.
He has to do something about it.
“You have been busy these last two days: from one bed to another,” he says instead. A part of him cringes. Why ruin the imagery in the bed?
The apparition himself flinches and clutches the sheets closer around himself.
“So; the shadows on the wall again?”
Till knows Richard’s fully aware of what he’s aiming at. He is just trying to gain time.
Richard leans forward in the bed and rests his chin on his fists. His knuckles are whitened.
“Who are you to talk… like you weren’t on your way to similar businesses yourself?”
“Well, not with someone so familiar, at least.”
“If “someone so familiar,” Richard makes quotation marks in the air, “ is the problem, what exactly are we doing here?”
“Well, don’t deny that a ménage à trois can mean trouble. I’m not jealous, Richard. Years have passed, and we have never been exclusive.”
“As you have pointed out several times now- and you know, it doesn’t give you the right to scold me for who I am sharing my bed with. If it can't be you, who would come close enough?”
How this exchange can end up in another round, Till doesn’t quite understand. But it does.
Richard falls asleep immediately afterward, head on Till’s chest, ruffled hair tickling his chin, one arm loosely wrapped around Till’s waist. Till is amazed at how fast it happens, like tapping a light switch without a dimmer function.
The position makes it nearly impossible for Till to move, which, if he is honest with himself, is thankful for. Till would love to remain awake, to savor the moment and revel in the, for once, bittersweet sadness. It’s meaningless, after a futile fight against the sandman, he closes his eyes and sleeps.
________________________________________
A forgotten alarm on Till’s phone wakes them both.
They’re still tangled in each other, but apart from the physical contact, the distance feels so distinct, it’s almost palpable.
They dress in silence and leave, walking in opposite directions.
Till’s heart weighs a ton in his chest.
He knows exactly where Richard is heading, and he wishes he didn’t.
So he does the same and walks to another embrace. And to the whip. After the whip, to deepen a tattoo.
Not that it helps. Not that he ever neither believed nor expected it to.
Together with the sunburn, the lashes soothe some kinds of aches, at least.
Maybe Richard has indeed found what he was looking for in another embrace.
__________________________________________________________
(Two days later)
Richard has a habit of sneaking up from behind, both figuratively and literally, Till thinks, when he feels the light tap of painted nails on his shoulder.
He flinches, like the touch is an electric bolt. With the wounds on his back, the pain is not from the touch though; he supposes.
“What are you doing here? I thought you'd found someone else. Someone like me, instead of me. Like you said.”
Richard tilts his head to the side.
“I didn’t say that. I don’t want someone like you. I want you.”
The lips against his feel like a seal this time.Instead of quickly pulling away, this time Till lingers in the embrace.
THE END
For your consideration.