27
Hours later when I awoke, disoriented and sore, it took a moment to register where I was.
These ceilings were not mine. Neither were the walls, all bare and devoid of paintings.
Neither was this furniture; sparse and rustic as it was.
Nor the verdant grass and low stone wall running along this section of the yard—unblemished white like everything else around me.
I deduced I’d entered a commune deep in the canyons of old Hollywood, deposited someplace along a time warp in the sixties.
The man beside me was fast asleep, yet at some point had gotten up to turn music on.
A familiar mix played about the room at a hushed volume; one I recognized from dreary autumn days at his London home.
Bob Marley’s “Satisfy My Soul” was winding down.
Back then we would spend the bulk of the day sleeping, awakening only to make love and art, play video games, watch movies, and cook in the dead of the night.
I was a proud sous-chef who got to taste everything as he prepared it, and was typically full by the time we were ready to eat.
Now Frank Ocean’s “Swim Good” was a quarter of the way through and I listened till the last second, rapt with nostalgia.
Moments ago, I’d dreamt Rome was walking ahead of me in a crowded airport and I couldn't reach him no matter how hard I sprinted.
Clueless others kept lumbering in the way—dogs, carts, children, luggage—all whizzing by as I accelerated through the confused mass.
Then he halted and turned back to acknowledge me.
Before I could speak, I was snatched backwards away from him, and now lay blinking awake.
For several moments I shut my eyes and tried to decipher the moral of this nightmare, but nothing seemed to make sense.
I figured he must’ve stepped onto the terrace for a smoke while I slept, since the door was now ajar.
A breeze stirred around the room. He’d pulled back the heavier drapes and snuffed out all the candles in the meantime.
Consequently, I was reminded it was the middle of the day, and not night as I’d been deceived into believing as we made love to candlelight and silence.
“Thinkin Bout You” started up and I stretched as best I could without exacerbating my tender muscles.
I was as limp and shriveled as my cock; the life having been drained from both without mercy.
Soon I caught a whiff of cigarettes and knew he’d engaged in his post-coital smoke session as always. He certainly deserved it.
I watched him now without relent, as he lay facing me on his belly, one knee bent over my thigh.
His thumb lingered near his parted mouth, like it was accustomed to.
I could never catch him in the act, but it was forever poised to take the dive the moment he felt the inclination in his sleep.
Perhaps I watched him too long, because I grew frightened.
I began to see myself. A crude doppelganger.
How could another encompass my being? My totality?
If I was there, then what the hell was left over here?
Who was lying beside him? No one. A travesty.
If he got up and left now, I'd be nothing. A void.
Ten years in, and I had yet to embody any of him. He was an elusive bastard. With a quiet aversion, I pressed my lips to his cheek and exhaled.
“Marry me,” I whispered, directly into his ear.
Later I got up to piss and winced as I walked to the bathroom, stepping down from the dais that somewhat elevated the bed.
I entered and swiped the dimmer and waited until it flickered to life.
I stood before the double mirror to register the damage done.
My ass hurt, but it was a good hurting; as though he’d branded me.
The pressure of him still dwelt deep inside; the weight of him still bearing down on me.
I nearly shut my eyes to savor his phantom, but thought it best to get back to the business at hand.
There were alarming changes to my body from when I’d first gazed into this mirror hours earlier. A light beard burn on my chin. Kiss-swollen lips. Bruised nipples. Hickeys along my neck and collarbone. I was a wreck, but grinned like a loon for bearing visible marks of his ardor.
Before exiting, I washed my hands and face, but left the rest because I wasn't ready to shower him away.
I strode stark naked to the kitchen, liberated and whole.
Sunlight bathed the lounge. The floors were warm.
After rummaging through a few cabinets, I discovered unused China coated with a dusty film.
Loads of canned goods and dried fruit. Tons of sugary snacks and baked crisps.
It was clear people with diverging tastebuds shopped for the house, and I shut the cabinets with a shake of my head.
The suction of the refrigerator door endowed me with a sense of home.
There were an array of vitamin waters and energy drinks and a nigh empty pack of Stellas.
There were also loads of fruits and veggies, and meal-prep containers full of quinoa and kale and other Paleolithic shit.
The freezer looked more familiar, filled with steaks and seafood that made my stomach gnaw with hunger.
To remedy this, I snagged a plum from the crisper and devoured it over the sink, the juice running down my chin and hands until I washed it away.
Then I took a bottle of alkaline water and drank it halfway before leaving it on the counter.
Venturing back towards the bedroom, I spotted the one room he’d avoided showing me during my tour the other day. Some needling force got the better of me, and after listening to make sure he wasn’t awake, I tried the handle. It gave with ease.
As the door swung open, my breath hitched.
Strange didn’t begin to cut it. It was as though I’d entered a ringmaster’s tent.
A stunning mural of indigo blue encompassed all four walls and the ceiling, dotted with stars and constellations.
Two immense flocks of sparrows took flight from the flanks of the room, encircling each wall in a heaving ribbon, then eddying overhead.
The rich, inky blue that served as a contrasting backdrop to the white of the stars and birds was a familiar color—that being the exact same shade as my old mic sleeve and IEMs. I stepped further inside, agape, turning in a slow circle to reassess my findings.
It was the exact shade; not a smidgen darker or altered.
I’d know that color anywhere. Besides, I’d also gotten tattoos of sparrows and the same constellations through the years, so the meaning was unmistakable.
It was the only other colored room in the house, apart from the space-themed smoke room which was half the size of this one. Everything else was minimalistic and bone white. Something inexplicable welled up my throat. I swallowed thickly, unsure of whether to laugh or cry or run to kiss him awake.
The room was furnished only by a large glass cabinet opposite the door, filled with sundry keepsakes. The silver lighter I'd given him in Thailand nearly two years ago caught my eye and I ran to it directly. It’d been kept in pristine condition, probably never used.
Beside it were several of my bracelets and other odds and ends I’d left at his house and hotel rooms over the years.
Hair ties, ChapSticks, headphones. A few of the posh pens I’d collected at haberdasheries around the world, which he always stole even though he had no use for them.
I saw the watch I'd given him for his 2015 birthday, and the matching bracelet I'd given him on Valentine's Day 2016. The very last time we’d made love.
It was odd. It was Rome. It was me. It was a fucking shrine.
One that an unwitting onlooker would never clock.
But I recognized all with ease, every strange, minute, and forgotten item.
Worn Polaroids. Newspaper clippings. Old rings and necklaces.
Cufflinks and handwritten notes. Once more, I’d stumbled on myself in his place.
A past version of me he had pilfered and bottled up to revisit at his convenience—
Suddenly his hands were on me, sliding around my belly; body pressing from behind. He buried his face in my hair. He was every bit as nude as I was. The brush of his flaccid cock was unmistakable. The tickle of his pubes against the hypersensitive flesh of my ass was more than I could bear.
“Rome?”
He kissed my shoulder.
“Rome, I thought you were asleep…”
“I was,” he muttered.
“What is this?”
Following a pregnant pause, he shrugged.
“Seriously, mate. What is it? It’s mental.”
“Your stuff, babe.”
“Obviously. But why?”
“I was keepin’ it for ya.”
“No, you weren’t. Mate, you had no idea we’d ever see each other again.” He was only half-awake and grumbled something incoherent. “Be honest with me. Please.”
“You really think I’d let go that easy?”
That was a start.
“Rafe…you have any idea how fucked I was? For months? I was goin’ mad...I must’ve written a hundred songs in that first month.”
“Me too.”
“I needed this,” he continued. “It felt like…closure or somethin’.”
“I get it.”
“Back when I was movin’, and y’know, havin’ a bit of bother about ya…
I found so much shit of yours.” He stepped around me and tossed a hand at the hair-raising collection.
“They’d been lyin’ around the house. I couldn’t just toss ‘em out.” He resumed his position, grabbing me from behind and propping his chin on my shoulder like a disgruntled puppy.
“And every time I thought of leavin’ it behind, y’know, in the U-Kay, it just made me feel sick. I needed to bring it, so I did.”
“I get it, Rome…I swear I do. And I’m flattered as hell,” I marveled. “But, mate, what the hell? What if someone finds out? What if she finds out?”
“I know, I know…fuck.” He knocked his forehead against my shoulder. “I'm just..."
"Yeah?"
"I’m just crazy for ya, is all. Think I’m insane?”
“Yes…” I laughed, turning to look at him. His hair was mussed, so I smoothed a few tendrils from his face. “You’re a psychotic little hoarder…but in the best way possible. I’m insane too, y’know. Like you wouldn’t believe."
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah…for you. Only for you.” I set our foreheads together. “It feels unreal…like I’m gonna wake up tomorrow and you’ll be gone.”
“I’m right here.”
“Yeah, you are. But still…I'm anxious as hell.”
He kissed me to shut me up. I tasted his minty toothpaste. We suspended the kiss to move into the shower, where we quickly resumed it and explored each other unabashedly. My fingers were in his ass, playing with his tight, warm insides. He was faltering, hardening against my thigh.
“Rafe..." he groaned. "We seriously can’t.”
He was right. I was too exhausted for round two and didn’t think I could deliver the way I’d like to.
We needed to eat and replenish our energy, then I’d get him back in bed.
I settled for washing him instead, pulling on his shaft every now and then to tease him, and trying to keep him from touching mine.
We laughed when the suds from the shampoo toppled onto his face, and I cleared them away with wet fingers. Then we let the jets blast us.
He nudged my cheek with his nose, dragging his fingers up and down my arms, tracing my tattoos. Tugging me off with a languid affection that made my stomach ache. Then we were back in bed. Starved for food, but making out instead.