Chapter Fifteen
Schuyler woke up, still confused and still unsure of what to do.
He retreated to the Zen room and tried to find his center.
When that failed to give him the results he sought, he went out into nature, into the woods, to a little spot in a clearing, where he would lay, joined by Earth spirits who helped to calm him as he lazily admired the perfect blue, cloudless sky.
When the time came for him to move, he rose, decision made. Assisting with the spell was the only way to ensure it was performed correctly. If there, he could jump in if needed and ensure Issac—or Dev, weren’t hurt in the process.
He could not avoid the truth in what Marshall had said as well. There were things left unsaid, and if the spell worked and Dev was revived, Schuyler needed—wanted—to be there. Otherwise, there would be questions hounding him forever.
Once back home, he checked his phone. Issac had respected his wishes the day before, but spent the morning sending numerous apologetic texts, urging him for a moment to talk.
A request easily agreed to. One of Issac’s last texts inquired about discussing matters over tacos, and Schuyler knew a place.
The amber colored stucco walls of the cantina, Huesos Y Miel, were adorned with brightly painted murals of skeleton couples in different scenarios, decorated skulls, and flowers.
The dining room centered around a small dance floor, which faced a stage on which a band of skeletons, whose bones were covered in colorful tattoos, performed slow, beautiful, and melodic songs.
A bar ran the length of the cantina, at which both the living and the dead were bellied up to.
At one of the few wooden tables still available in front of the bar, Schuyler and Issac sat.
Issac appeared tired, but even the slight weariness in his features did little to diminish his handsomeness.
A phantasma, glowing and wavering in blue ethereal light, with their ghostly visage painted to honor the day of the dead, took their order: a couple of beers with rice and tacos.
When the phantasma waitress left, an order of breadsticks baked to resemble bones, with a honey dip, appeared on the table—the cantina’s namesake.
Issac spoke first, eager to start the conversation.
“I’m aware I’ve no clue what I’ve put you through the past couple of days. Dropping a bomb like that, considering your relationship with my uncle. I’m incredibly sorry. I wanted to avoid any hurt in that area, and my decisions only made a bigger mess, which is typical Issac, really.
“Which is something you should know if you’re not completely done with my ass.” He threw up his hands, and with the defeated expression he pulled, Schuyler could see he’d beat himself up over the topic, perhaps rightfully.
“I don’t know,” Schuyler responded honestly. “I get it’s weird, but this isn’t some silly misunderstanding. You lied to me. Hell, you offered up a fake name, when I didn’t even ask what your uncle’s name was in the first place. I respected your privacy.
“And I can’t help but feel like you did that to hide the truth, so I’d help you.”
Even in the midst of his emotional turmoil over their situation, Schuyler thought only of kissing him. There was sadness in the young man’s face, and even if self-induced Sky hated seeing it there, with those lips begging for attention.
Issac sat up and leaned forward, looking directly at Schuyler. “I accepted your help because you were kind enough to offer it to me, even though I’d been a nasty ass. Pun intended.
“I accepted because you were handsome, and funny, and kinda a grump. I wanted any opportunity to spend time with you. I never meant to hide anything. I really didn’t know how to bring up the subject once we’d gotten so intimate.
And then days flew past without me realizing, and shit, like, how do I tell you now?
Never,” he emphasized, “was it my intention to hurt you. I swear on the Goddesses, as you all say.”
The words were sweet, their delivery sincere, but could Schuyler believe him?
There was an attractiveness to the vulnerable and remorseful Issac who sat across from him, almost crumpled in his chair, shoulders curled over his chest, head low.
When his tired eyes weren’t fixed on Schuyler’s face, they were on the plates of food which arrived quickly, or on the RasSkels, the band on stage continuing their set.
He appeared remorseful, from the way his voice cracked when he spoke, to the number of times he reached out to touch Schuyler’s hand only to pull back, unsure if he was permitted to do so. But Schuyler questioned if that was enough.
“I really don’t know what else to say. I’m so, so sorry. If after this meal you never want to see me again, I’d understand.”
The idea of never seeing Issac again didn’t sit right in his stomach, even after days of turmoil with heightened emotions.
Schuyler thought back, realizing most of that was for Dev, for the unhealed parts of himself.
How much of that was truly about Issac? Yes, he lied, but he wasn’t wrong about being placed in an impossible position, albeit one he created.
He knew the young man waited for a response, but Schuyler could not find any words, continuing to peer into Issac’s face, thinking of their time together over the past week. Days wasted in bed, teaching him magic.
The RasSkels smoothly moved their way into a new song, strumming on the strings so evocatively it gave Schuyler a single thought.
His hand reached across the table and slid over Issac’s, “Come on.” Schuyler took his hand and urged Issac up, leading him to the dance floor.
“What? No—” Issac hesitated.
“Dance with me.”
“There’s people here,” he said, nervous at the thought of eyes on him, on them.
“Nobody cares. They’re only paying attention to themselves. And there’re other couples on the dance floor.” Both living and dead couples, gay and straight.
Issac nodded, still lingering in his hesitation. “I don’t really know how to dance like that. I can only throw my ass around to Pop songs.”
“You’re a witch, dancing is in our blood. We dance in our rituals, we dance to be grateful, we dance to be closer to the Goddesses.” Swaying his hips as they stepped onto the dance floor, Schuyler instructed, “Follow me, follow the music.”
Their left hands found each other; their fingers intertwined.
Schuyler wrapped his right arm around Issac’s waist, pulling him in.
This reminded him of their first night, in the bubble, the lingering tension of their hovering closeness, the restrained desire to touch.
The mystery of the handsome stranger. He knew Issac now, and still the shivering ache calling for their bodies to be closer remained every bit as potent.
Light percussion joined the strings, informing them of the beat to which they moved around the floor.
Every so often, Schuyler spun Issac away from him, never letting go, before pulling him back in.
Face to face. Chest to chest. Resisting the urge to push in closer, though he feigned as if he were about to, only to spin Issac away once more.
Issac’s hand gripped Schuyler’s shoulders as their pace quickened. Their hips moved toward each other; their legs intertwined as they crossed the floor with a satisfying smoothness.
Bodies were given over to the music, following the strings’ instruction, the drums guidance, and the vocalist’s soothing plea to rekindle a lost love.
The song spoke of forgiveness, and Schuyler wasn’t one to shake off synchronicity as strong as that.
He understood Issac’s position; he’d more than once let things needing to be said linger until they snowballed into a bigger mess because he’d never ‘found the right time’ to speak up.
Remaining angry at Issac for a crime he’d been guilty of in his youth didn’t feel fair.
“I forgive you,” he whispered into Issac’s ear.
Issac’s grip on him tightened, and with every turn around the floor, Schuyler felt more of his anger at the situation fade.
He’d be more cautious than his heavily bandaged heart already was, but he let go.
There had been more moments of happiness and satisfaction in the past few days than in the past couple of years.
Witches often found themselves in peculiar situations with creaky connections to the past; this was no different.
The reserve both parties had been showing began to fade once the apology was accepted.
Their hips grinded against each other; embraces became tighter.
The speed quickened. Schuyler pulled Issac in as close as possible and kissed the side of his head, working a trail down until their lips met, and then he led them off the dance floor.
Schuyler grabbed Issac, hoisting him up as they pushed past the bathroom door. Lowering his left hand, he swirled his ring finger in the air. “Lock,” he commanded, and the door locked behind them.
Issac wrapped his legs around Sky’s waist. They slammed against the outer stall wall, both ravenous for each other after two days separated. Their kissing wild, hands pulling at clothes.
Schuyler waved his right hand—Issac’s clothes vanished.
Another wave, and so did his. He spun them around, setting Issac down on the sink—hard.
The impact rocked the basin, causing it to come slightly off the wall and bend the pipes; water began to pour from the faucet.
Issac licked on Schuyler’s hairy chest, biting at his nipples, while Sky scooted Issac’s lower half to the edge of the sink, ensuring he could enter.
Issac’s rear slid, dipping into the basin, which had filled with water and was beginning to spill out onto the floor.
Schuyler readjusted him and pushed his erection against Issac.
There was sex meant to be savored. Sex which took its time and lingered within the sweet bliss of deep, harmonic connection.
The arousing sensation of lust brought from the stillest point to a rolling boil, where the caresses were tender and thoughtful.
Every desire spoken given attention; sex which transcended the mere act of bodies joined together.
This was not that kind of sex.
This was sex ushered in, in the heat of the moment, where control was relinquished to primal animalistic carnality; the need to penetrate or be penetrated.
Where clothes were obstacles, and moans and words of encouragement were replaced by grunts and growls.
Where lust flogged the mind savagely into no longer seeing a person, but merely a body, one intended for nothing more than pleasure.
The sink struggled under the force of Schuyler’s thrust and Issac’s vigorous responses.
The final remnants of Sky’s anger worked out its issues with Issac’s ass, which accepted its punishment.
The young man grabbed Schuyler’s hands and moved them past his chest, offering up his neck, which Sky began to choke.
Issac nodded in enthusiastic approval, his eyes rolling back from the pressure being applied.
Water continued to pour out onto the floor around Schuyler’s feet as he pumped furiously into Issac, who begged for more.
Sky felt his orgasm approaching and ignored any internal request to delay the experience.
There was no concern about Issac’s readiness; he could be finished off later—or not at all.
Schuyler thought only of his own climax, growing ever closer.
Issac repositioned himself, wrapping one arm around Schuyler’s neck, and rode him harder.
The sink barely held them up. Schuyler howled as he unloaded deep inside Issac.