Chapter Ten
Rowan
I’ve just awoken from a dream of Benjamin and me. It’s a dream I’ve had plenty of times before, but this time it was sharper. It was far more intense, vivid, and emotional.
Perhaps, I think, because of Elijah.
This dream is of the first time I tell Benjamin I love him. He’s lying beneath me, hysterical and in tears. I can’t quite pinpoint what he’s so upset about, but I know I’ve caused it. I have him pinned under me as I straddle his hips, and he’s trying his hardest to push me away.
But I’m stronger. I’ve always been stronger than him.
“I’ve loved you since I was seventeen.”
“Stop it, Aaron.”
This is the first time I’ve heard it. Aaron. The dream normally skips over that part, leaving that detail unrevealed.
I’m desperate for him to listen to me, and Benjamin is throwing punch after punch to force me away from him.
But I can see it there on his face: he doesn’t hate my affection; he’s terrified of it. Of what it means and what it’ll do to him.
“Button, tell me. Tell me you’re in love with me too; that all this time we’ve been coming back to each other over and over wasn’t just because I can’t live without you, but you can’t live without me.”
“I have always loved you. I will never love anyone else the way I love you. With this kind of devotion.”
And I’m crying and grasping onto him with everything I have. Other words are spoken, but I can’t quite reach them. I can’t quite make them out over the beating of my own heart and the force of my own cries.
Then I’m kissing him, pulling him on top of me, and relishing in the weight of his naked body over mine.
“Benjamin, let me take care of you. Let me love you.”
“Okay. Okay, my Aaron. My darling God.”
As if he thinks that highly of me. His eyes tell me I give him the very oxygen he breathes.
And I’m desperate to feel him like this. We’ve had sex before; I’ve sunk so deeply inside of him and dug my teeth beneath his skin. But never like this—never with the knowledge that he loves me too. Assuredly, verbally, completely confirmed.
It does something else to my body—makes me frantic and careless. I’d do anything in this moment to keep him with me, I realize.
So I let that show in every movement, in every sound. It transfers from me to him as I shove his cock down my throat, as I kiss up his thighs and over his stomach, while I sink my fingers into the tightness of his back entrance.
And Benjamin is falling to pieces beneath me, moaning and whimpering as if I really am pulling him apart piece by piece.
“I’ve got you, I’m right here. Nothing will hurt you. I’ll burn this whole fucking city down, Benjamin. I won’t let them hurt you anymore.”
“Aaron, I love you. I love you so much.”
I’m pushing deeper and deeper into him, and in my heart, there is a sadness—a deep-rooted sadness that feels almost like guilt and regret.
Every inch of me is pressed against every inch of him, and as I flip him over and press my chest to his back, I bury my face into his neck and sink so deeply inside of him that he chokes.
And some time later, he’s coming, spasming around my dick as I thrust over and over again, and I’m tumbling right after him, my teeth latching onto the back of his neck in a painful claiming that feels like the only right way to take him.
To make him mine. To ensure that no one, not even Benjamin himself, can take this from me.
He’s hot against me, sweaty and full of my come. And as he talks me off the ledge that is the height of my orgasm, I can’t stop crying.
The force of how much I love him is racking through me in harsh waves.
But I can feel it. I can sense it in the tension of his body and the sad honesty of his hazel eyes: things aren’t magically fixed. I fear they will only get harder from here. How—I do not know.
If I hold him tight enough, can I prevent him from falling apart? As I think this, I pull out of his body and press my thumb over his entrance, keeping my seed inside of him.
The dream starts to fade, and the blood on the back of his neck leaks from the incisions in neat little lines, streaking over the sides of his neck.
I look at my notebook, now having scribbled the entirety of the dream onto the piece of paper. This is the first time it was so detailed.
And now—having seen it in such startling description—I am certain that Elijah and Benjamin are one. Right down to the color of his hair and the delicious curve of his hard cock.
I could see it in the bright hue of the green flecks in his eyes and the familiar way he clung to me and made himself completely defenseless.
With the addition of this new information—Aaron—I am now also certain that it is not a matter of memory loss or prophecy.
The man holding him so tightly was most definitely me. Therefore, Benjamin does not exist in this lifetime. I must have loved him before, when I was Aaron. And now I am Rowan, and he is Elijah, and I have found him again.
Or, to be accurate, he found me.
Why I am the only one with these memories of our time together, I’m unsure. But I intend on holding onto them.
And with the pain in my chest, with the sorrow and terror that courses through me at the sight of him, I know I must have lost him before.
When, where, and why remain unknown, and if I’m honest, I am not too concerned with figuring it out. I’m happy to write down new information and collect the story if it comes to me, but it’s not a necessity. I’m just happy to have an explanation for my current issues.
I’m not crazy; I don’t have an incurable, unidentifiable mental illness. No—my body is mourning and remembering the loss of its other half. And now I am reunited.
Will the pain fade? Will this fear dissipate? Only time will tell.
I wish I could tell him. I wish I could grab Elijah and sit him down, explaining from start to finish how we are star-crossed lovers here to reconnect with one another. But he’d probably think I’m insane, so I’ll keep that little fact to myself. At least for now.
Taking the paper I’ve now ripped from my notebook, I clear the corkboard in my room and hang it. Then, I grab the film from my camera and begin the process of developing the picture I took of Elijah.
I won’t be going back to sleep any time soon, anyway.
It’s around lunch time when I hear a knock at my door. Three steady beats, then a moment of silence. I’m pretty sure I know exactly who it is from that alone, and my heart begins to beat at a quickened pace.
I set down the book I was reading and head to the entryway, taking a moment to double-check that I am in fact wearing a shirt this time.
I pull the door open before Elijah can knock again.
At the sight of him, I can barely breathe. And when I can finally manage a full inhale, all I can smell is citrus. As if now that I know who he is to me, I cannot smell anything else on his person.
He’s wearing dark wash, low-waisted jeans and a purple t-shirt, his blond hair messy as if the wind got hold of it. Those hazel eyes widen at the sight of me, like he wasn’t aware of whose door he was knocking on until now.
I catch the confusion, the fear, the anticipation as it flashes through his eyes simultaneously. He’s overwhelmed by the sight of me, the way I am him.
“Hey,” he breathes, wringing his hands at his navel. “How are you?”
“Good. You?” I keep my voice even, doing my best not to portray my excitement or my own fear.
What am I to do now that I know who he is? Now that I know what rests on our interactions? The pressure is crushing.
“Good, good.” Elijah clears his throat. “I realized that I never asked my interview questions.”
At this, I can’t help the smile that curves one side of my lips. It’s true. I took him home, and instead of interviewing me, I got him straight into my bed.
Bad Rowan.
Elijah catches my grin and does me one better, giving me a bright smile of his own. Dimples curve into his cheeks as he glows in front of me.
“Oh, yeah. I noticed too.” I didn’t. Not really.
“I could ask you the questions now.” Elijah peers behind me. “Can I come in?”
All the color drains from my face as I realize my corkboard now holds the developed photo of him and a very detailed sex dream with the name of another man. Ah, fuck.
“Uh, no. Sorry.”
Elijah’s brow furrows as he looks up at me. “Why not?”
“I don’t really like people in my space,” I lie, and he tilts his head in question.
“But I was just in there,” he deadpans.
“Um…” I try to think of a reasonable excuse, but all I can come up with is, “I was a little drunk, so I didn’t really think about it at the time.”
Elijah’s eyes are naturally warm and inviting. They’re big and doll-like, very fitting to his boyish features. But now—as he takes in the lies I’m telling him—they harden.
Freezing me out, he peers behind me once more, before narrowing slightly onto my own worried gaze.
“Sure. Then how about we have dinner at my apartment?” he offers, and I’m shocked that he still wants to see me after rudely barring him from my home.
“Yeah—yes. That would be cool,” I rush out. “Here, take my number so you can send me your address.”
Elijah seems to be slightly confused. As if he can’t wrap his mind around the rejection and the acceptance all at once. I don’t blame him.
“Sure,” he repeats, handing me his phone so I can punch in the numbers.
Once I do, he takes it back and turns to walk away.
Elijah makes it halfway to his car before he turns back around, looking at me from a distance.
“Tomorrow at 6 o’clock,” is all he says, and then he’s getting in his car and driving away.
I watch him disappear, closing the door only when the dirt has settled.
Well… that was close. But now I can keep my corkboard up, and going forward, we can just meet at Elijah’s place.
What if I have more dreams to write down? What if I have more pictures of him to develop?
I… I really want to take more pictures of him.