38. Sage
THIRTY-EIGHT
SAGE
Grief is a weird thing. It’s not constant, not consistent. It moves like the tide. Coming in and going out. Sometimes the waves crash against the surface, others are gentle reminders.
It’s been two weeks and four days since the fire.
For the first few nights here, I’d wake in a panic, forced awake by nightmares twisting events.
Some mornings, the walls of the tiny shoebox we live in would press in on every exhale.
Pressing in closer and closer until I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Only at night, when I’m curled into Mac’s arms, do the walls stop.
Only with him does the room feel bigger than it really is.
It should feel the opposite. Mac has always been larger than life.
Larger than the park we grew up in. How he makes this tiny room feel anything but suffocating, I’ll never know.
The nightmares are finally starting to ease up. The panic-filled dreams to save Mac and my home twist. They morph and play out differently most nights. Sometimes Mac saves me from the fire. Others, we start the fire ourselves.
Those are my favorite dreams. Mac and I stand in front of the trailer, holding hands. Mac lights the lighter and tosses it towards the trailer. The flames catch quicker than any real fire could. Going from a spark to a raging inferno. And we watch.
Watch the door with Mac’s bloody handprints turn to ash. The couch where I found my mother’s dead body melt. Our past swirling into the dark sky.
Those mornings, after we take the choice to move on into our own hands, I don’t feel the need to check the contents of the bag. Don’t have to touch the blankets Mom knitted. Don’t have to look at photos of before. My heart doesn’t start the day off torn apart.
I wish that was how it actually happened. I wish I had done what I dreamed of doing all those years. Burn that piece of shit to the ground. I wish I had been ready to let it go when Karen lit that match.
Sometimes I catch Mac lost in his head. A deep scowl turning his face into something harsh. Sometimes he catches me, too. Lost to the grief when the waves crash down.
I have no idea if we are dealing with this in a healthy way. Don’t really care, either, though. We take turns letting the other fall apart. Take turns putting them back together again.
We never learned how to deal with shit. Our parents never taught us how to cope in a productive way. Mom tried. I know she did, but she never learned how to deal, either.
Maybe if our parents had healed themselves before having us, we wouldn’t have spent our lives healing from them.
But now, we have a new normal. It’s good and bad.
Shitty and amazing. Mac goes to work at the garage; I’m finally back to work with the road crew.
Life goes on. Life doesn’t pause or wait for you to catch your breath.
Hospital bills must be paid. Favors need to be repaid.
Doesn’t matter if you’re ready to move on or not.
After the fire, I took a lot of time off. I had a lot of time to think while my arm healed. Reflect. Not something I’ve ever enjoyed or had the time for. But I didn’t have a choice. When Mac would reluctantly head downstairs for work, I’d stay up here. Left alone with my thoughts.
That’s when I discovered the relief I felt.
And the guilt. Maybe it was the dreams of burning it all down ourselves, or maybe I’m just sick of feeling sorry about my life.
But I found a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
No longer weighed down by the ghosts of my past. My mom is no longer hiding in the trailer. A noose no longer around my neck.
My mom had been gone for two years, but I lived with her ghost the entire time. Seeing her in every corner of the trailer. Only when Mac moved in did her ghost settle down, stop screaming at me, stop haunting me. But now with the trailer gone…I’ve let her go, too.
I have my memories, the mementos I foolishly, recklessly rescued. And I realize that’s enough. Most days, that’s enough. Today it is.
And I have Mac. The dumb asshole who blames himself for every action of his parents. Apologizing for shit he’s not responsible for. One day he’ll see he’s so much more. I’ll make sure of that.
But right now, I kind of want to punch him in his stupid face.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” I growl at the naked Mac trying to shimmy his way into the shower with me.
It’s small enough, I don’t need his big body in here, too.
He smirks that cocky smile and steps under the limited water.
His body presses up against mine, pinning me against the tile wall.
“Someone got cum everywhere. I gotta get to work.” He pretends like he doesn’t notice me scowling at him. Just goes about his business, washing his chest and cock with body wash. I know he can feel my glare; his patronizing smile confirms that.
“You couldn’t wait?” I sound like a petulant child, but I feel like a horny teenager. My cock is already getting hard again. Even though his cum is still leaking from my abused ass, I want more.
Do gay awakenings come with a second puberty? Because I’ve been insatiable. Always wanting more, more, and fucking more.
“Nope,” is his cheerful reply.
He woke me up this morning with my cock in his mouth.
Just as I was about to blow, he pulled off, flipped me over like I was made of air, and slammed into me.
Asshole didn’t even get me ready first. The sharp sting of his thick cock made me come alive.
Pain mixing with pleasure in an intoxicating concoction that sent me flying.
Not a new occurrence since the fire. Ever since he realized blowjobs make life less shitty, he’s been on his knees for me more than not. Not that I’m complaining; it really helps when the dreams turn bad. When the shoebox gets to be too small.
But right now, I’m horny again, and pissed. Squished against the wall, the water barely able to reach me. Just a few drops that splash off of him. Mac’s elbow narrowly misses my face when he runs shampoo through his hair.
“Get out,” I demand, but it lacks any authority, my words laced with lust and contradicting me. It makes his smile grow, smug and arrogant, but my cock fucking loves it.
I grow to full mast, the close space forcing it against his upper thigh. When he’s satisfied with his hair, he drops his arm. Pinning me with a look I’ve grown to know so goddamn well. I can practically see the depraved ideas running through his mind.
“Is that what you want me to do, baby?” He turns slightly, as much as he can in this pencil case of a shower. His chest presses me further into the wall; his hard cock ruts against mine.
My breath hitches in my throat. I swallow down my weak attempt at dominance. A moan takes its place when his long fingers grab ahold of both of us. Every time he touches me, he steals more of me. Keeping it for himself. My breath, my heart, and my goddamn sanity.
Just like that night weeks ago, when the truth was finally exposed, I melt into his touch. He doesn’t move, just holds us both in his massive hand, that damn smile mocking me when I try fruitlessly to thrust into his grip.
“Tell me that’s what you want. Tell me you want me to get out.” He slowly moves his hand. The water is a poor substitute for lube, but his hand moves over us all the same. The feel of his cock against mine is just as heady as ever.
“Urghhh,” is all I can get past my lips. Thoughts are hard to reach when Mac is like this. He chuckles before kissing me gently. Then he stops, drops our cocks, and steps back out of the shower. The water hits my face when I subconsciously lean towards his retreating form.
“Gotta get to work, baby. Enjoy your shower.” The asshole winks and saunters out into the shoebox. I growl low in my chest.
“Motherfucker!” I call out after him. I hear him laugh and curse him again in my head. My hand finds my dick and grips the base tightly. My crown is flushed with blood and already close.
Another thing I’ve noticed about sex with Mac—it’s so much more than it was with anyone else. Whether it’s because he’s a guy or because of who he is, I have no clue. Not that I care either way. He makes my body come alive like it never has.
“Oh, and baby?” he says sweetly, too sweetly, suspiciously. He pops back into the bathroom with a shit-eating grin I know better than to trust.
“What?” I bark out, slowly jerking my cock. The sight of the water dripping from his hair steals my focus. A few drops slowly travel down, down his pecs to his abs, his stomach, to disappear into the waistband of his boxers.
“Eyes are up here, love.” He has the audacity to say, his smile only growing more manic. This asshole is trying to get fucked up.
“Fuck you. Get back in here and finish what you started or get out.” I jerk my dick faster, hand flying up and down my aching length.
My eyes devour the sight before me. The visual aid bringing my balls up and pre-cum leaking.
The muscular planes of his defined chest, the devastating V.
The thin line of hair that leads into his boxers.
“Don’t come,” he demands like the dick he is. But my body complies against my will. My hand pauses, my eyes flying up to meet his. Who the fuck does he think he is?
I defiantly resume pumping my fist over myself, meeting his stare with one of my own. Daring him to do something, moaning into the shower when I hear the threatening growl he lets out at my insolence.
He moves faster than my eyes can track. One second he’s at the door, the next he has me pressed back against the wall. His hand goes to my throat, a ghost of a squeeze making me dizzy. The water soaks his boxers as he pins me with his hips.
I tip my head back against the wall, giving him more access, allowing him to do whatever the fuck he wants to me. My hands fall onto his arm holding my neck, not to push him away or get him to back off, but to simply hold onto.