Completion
©MCVT2017 MCVT2017March 8, 2019
Thoughts on mortality and morality are presented in this tale along with strength and resilience of the human spirit.
My thanks to the creator of an ikke fairy tale. My thanks to Nifty for allowing a place to post: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
50% Fiction; Adult Content. MM, self-realization, oral, rom, mature, slow. =============================================================================
Before the second great European war of our time, a dark-haired boy was born high in the mountains of Northern Italy. Italy boasts a highly-refined culture though their finery didn't extend to the ancient Roman outpost of Bovillia -- a provincial village where a stubborn and stoic population relived their ancestors' ways through several centuries. High stone walls surrounded the cluster of houses with a fountain in the very center. When the dark-haired and soft-spoken boy could walk well enough to traverse the cobblestones, his joy was sitting near the fountain watching the women come for water.
Among the several hundred people who lived in this village, there was a cripple. The elderly woman was disabled, her body hunched and small and her face misshapen. She was a friendly woman and loved the little boy who played near the fountain - even patted his head and spoke kindly to him. Every warm day as she came for water, the boy stood near to check that he was growing and make sure he wasn't becoming trollish like her.
The dark-haired, soft spoken boy grew through his first years as expected. Along with his brother and sister the boy entered school at the time a shadow of war crept across Europe. Darkness passed through Bovillia darkening lives like it had across all of Europe. Disruption permeated everything of their village -- even into the family homes and into the herds of sheep. A great diminishing began. Most of the men left, sheep were sold, food became scarce.
Strange light-haired men came into the home of the boy one night and stole the last of their meat hanging along the rafter in the attic where the brothers slept. The dark-haired, soft-spoken boy silently snuggled by his brother while their mother screamed at the uniformed thieves and swatted at them with her broom. The last of their meat was taken.
Through those times, the small boy and his mother gathered black walnuts to eat -- every day and every meal they ate nut gruel with only occasionally a vegetable or berries from the deep woods around the village. Life was bleak and frightening for the boy, winters felt exceptionally cold as the mother with three young children gathered wood and huddled together as the embers died in the hearth. With wide eyes, the dark-haired, soft-spoken boy hid when he saw the foreign men come through their village again, speaking harshly and searching for any stores of hidden food. The foreigners listened for the sounds of chickens and sniffed the air for anything being baked -- all for nothing. There was little food other than the foraged walnuts. They left cursing. More would come.
Through those difficult times, the dark-haired, soft-spoken boy noticed that the foreign men who came through their village changed. No longer were they big, strong and heavily-laden with weapons and gear -- they were older men, like his grandfather or much younger men - a little older than the boy's big brother. These men were hungry too, but not as frightening -- they moved on quickly in search of bread.
The dark-haired, soft-spoken boy's father returned from Poland in mufti. The crippled woman was given the father's old uniforms to refashion into pants and a jacket for the boy. She carefully cut and stitched the first new clothes the dark-haired, soft-spoken boy had ever worn, and he was proud to wear them. He was taller than the tiny woman by several inches now. He knew would be tall and strong like his father.
The next years were hard for the citizens of Italy and worse in the small village as they began rebuilding. The older sister went to work at a paper plant near the coast and the brother left for the university. As the dark-haired, soft-spoken boy's shoulders became wide and strong with muscle, he wanted to work. His parents forbade it till he finished school. Upon his graduation, there was a call for workers to cut marble for a palace in France. The dark-haired, soft-spoken boy found work in the dusty quarry yet the place called Versailles only needed a certain amount of the beautiful rock. All the workers were laid off. There was little work nearby that paid enough to help his parents rebuild their flock of sheep, repair their chicken coop and replant their fields.
The older sister married and immigrated to America with her new husband. With meager savings in hand, the dark-haired, soft-spoken young man bought passage to a place called New York. "Lots of Italians there and I can get a job with my sister." He practiced his English on his voyage and moved through the chaos of Ellis Island alone and excited. From his small conservative village with a strong religious heritage, the young man was amazed to hear rock and roll music blaring on the sidewalks in his new land. People were forward and brash causing the young man to chuckle, he was soft-spoken and reticent about adopting all the new ways around him.
Yes, he worked in a deli alongside his sister and brother-in-law and enjoyed meeting customers, filling their orders. Each day brought new people and the young man did well -- his smile and enthusiasm brought him compliments and an occasional tip! With a few bucks in his pocket he explored the city on Sundays. He observed the Bohemian areas with artists and musicians, the Polish quarters, the barrios and enclaves - each different and each with their own sounds and their own distinct smells. The dark-haired and soft-spoken young man was handsome -- and kept himself neatly groomed. He attracted many women on his adventures. Though the older men always chuckled when they spoke of it, the young man developed a deep fear of "the drips," or worse "sif." There was a lot to learn and he wasn't tempted by the beauties strutting the sidewalks at dusk.
Coursing the city, the dark-haired, soft-spoken young man was often filled with somatic responses to his observations and those sensations puzzled him. Strange thoughts often filled his mind and churned in his chest distracting him from his role to succeed. His duty was to marry, make a family and send funds home to his parents who would join him later. This is the dream of millions and more often than not, an immigrant's obligation. His feelings had to wait behind his need to find greater opportunity, though the sensations were an unruly hoard -- difficult for the dark-haired, soft-spoken young man to manage at times.
The young man made a very serious mistake that altered his life. Certain cafes and bars where groups of men who enjoyed each other's company often attracted his presence. Dark-haired and soft-spoken young men were welcomed and he began to fellowship with them cautiously. Men who loved other men -- secret liaisons cloaked in mystery; ancient practices and completely new to the dark-haired soft-spoken young man. Feelings of love toward another man was more taboo than the enjoyment of sheep he was warned against as a child. During a conversation with his brother-in-law the young man inadvertently mentioned one of the haunts he frequented. His sister and brother-in-law fell silent, staring at the young man. Within moments he was banished from the only family he had in his new land. A pervert was not welcomed in their sanctified home where crucifixes hung above each light switch. Young and alone -- he needed his family, he devised a plan to negate his disastrous comment; he married.
The woman he chose was much older, she had a well-paying job and wanted no children after raising her siblings in an impoverished rural area in Carolina. Together the newlyweds visited the young man's family in Italy. The young husband's parents said nothing of the age difference between husband and wife and wished the couple well. On the last day of their visit, the father took his son aside to remind him to be a faithful husband -- any liaison with another outside the bounds of matrimony was a sin. In that moment, the son knew his father was aware of where his curiosity had led him. At the airport, the father hugged his son as they parted. Then, the father stepped back and shook his head silently. The young man loved his father dearly and his heart broke, but he smiled and continued his façade as a loving spouse.
The dark-haired, soft-spoken husband took a union job and worked nights at a glamorous, ritzy apartment aside a famous river. Life passed with the young man never mentioning the reason of the familial rift to his wife. To all about him, he was following his expected path. He hid, yet never lost his thoughts about men and the churning in his chest still moved inside him. The life he built was sufficient. Now, though he could only hope that time would bring his family back around him.
Hidden longings and a feeling of lacking grew as his wife aged. She retired and became ill. The dark-haired, soft-spoken middle-aged man patiently fulfilled his duty as she passed leaving him much more alone than he'd ever been; time hadn't closed the familial rift. From years of only the front of a happy, successful life, he took alcohol and rich food as his companions as he read. His days were filled with novels of every kind -- including romance novels, then more risqué, teasing literature that sparked his old thoughts and kept the churning feelings though they only made hollowness deeper. His health declined; diabetes brought frustration and self-pity which worsened his mood.
Little nutrition during his youth had left the man and his siblings shorter than his parents. Now, the dark-haired and soft-spoken boy was a bald, retired man with heavy features, obese and with a scowl that would scare a rabid dog. A troll -- he'd become an old troll! Perhaps prodded by vanity -- his once even-tempered disposition soured and stank to an intolerable extent as he became more reclusive. Neighbors and former co-workers avoided him.
Certainly not from need, but by habit the old troll went to the barber once a month. Noting his client's changed demeanor, the barber suggested a companion to assist his client with keeping the yard, helping with errands and such. Being a confirmed Methodist and not wanting to suggest anything inappropriate, the barber said he knew of a man looking for a room in the area before purchasing a place of his own. "Nice fella. Has his own business -- kind of quiet but a fine man from all I hear. No drugs or alcohol..." The barber commented as he trimmed the unruly tufts of hair from the old troll's ears.
The old troll went home and called the phone number given him that very afternoon.
The companion was a younger man by twenty years, with long hair he wore in a braid -- not a big man, but a slender, graceful man in an efficient way. The companion was grateful to have a room near his office until he could find and make arrangements for a small place to call home. Together, they found an informal contract online and each modified it to their liking and signed the document with a feeling of rightness between them. The young man helped the troll get his house back to a livable space after the troll's lonely years and took an upstairs bedroom for himself.
The companion started a garden -- on cool afternoons the men ate tomatoes and cucumbers right from the plants with only a shaker of salt in one hand and a cold tea in the other. They spoke of current events and enjoyed their evenings weeding and watering. While the younger man worked during the days, the troll watched the international news awaiting his companion's arrival. What a pleasure it was to have someone to talk with! The old troll didn't need his alcohol any longer and the companion didn't seem to have a taste for it. Help with groceries and in the kitchen brought a shiny excitement to meals -- the old troll now waited, and even looked forward to the simple repasts the companion made.
As it happened, topic of homosexuality appeared on the news as laws were enacted recognizing marriages among people of the same gender. The troll was silently surprised when the younger man had no reservations in his opinions about the diversity of affections on the planet. Being curious about this strangely open attitude, the old troll asked, "Weren't you taught that humans are to procreate?"
"Plenty of people on the planet. Life's too short and love's for sharing."
Ancient, marble columns that once held the old troll's beliefs crumbled as he considered what the young man just said. After the dust of a changed perspective calmed, the old troll could see clearly -- a wide horizon expanded around him. Without the seriously guarded and tightly wrapped feelings, something very important came into the troll's life: a moment of humor. In his armchair he laughed out loud wondering why he had been so ridiculously rigid for so long. Yes, of course, love is for sharing! He knew that but didn't consider how to apply the thought to himself.
Through the months, the young man brought videos about all kinds of love and funny situations; often poignant and moving stories. It brought relief from the documentaries on Normandy and historic reenactments of the Blitzkrieg. Both viewers were meticulous critics and enjoyed those evenings with a glass of tea and a spirited discussion. Music and songs filled the house as dark fell around them after their reviews.
New books with different stories came in like the first warm breaths of spring to awaken new, or perhaps ancient seeds to grow toward blossom. The old troll's life was filled with colors, sounds, smells and tastes that were more intense and invigorating than he thought could happen.
They became close companions and for the first time in his life, the troll could speak about his feelings to the man sitting next to him -- though the old troll skirted his truths and dodged the full extent of his feelings. Carefully, he poured out the difficulties of his childhood during the war and his loneliness after his wife died. The companion held the troll's hand when tears came. Tears for time lost fulfilling others' expectations. Tears for an undefined family schism. Listening quietly -- they shared tenderly about the unspoken harshnesses they'd borne through their lives. Though the companion was reserved about the details of his past, each of them had experienced great losses and difficulties.
The companion brought bright, new ideas that relaxed the old troll, they became quite at ease as the companion researched the diabetic diet further in order to assist the old troll control his blood sugar levels -- a constant frustration.
One night near the end of the year, the young man asked the old troll to visit a local bar with him. This was a surprise -- the young man never went out in the evenings. He only attended professional meetings and workshops, but that night he asked the old troll to join him at a small bar and showed the old troll a flyer for a musical event with a buffet.
"A bar? You know I don't walk well. I can't dance. And what about my diet?"
The companion chuckled and shrugged, "Only one night, one meal, you'll be okay."
The next Saturday night, the companion dug through the troll's sweaters, "We're going. Get shaved. They're raising money for a charity -- we're going to make a donation and have a good time." By this time in their lives, the old troll was not as steady as he was before, yet his life was better -- very comfortable and he trusted his companion on many matters. He didn't grumble at all as the younger man helped with his shoes and socks, his pants and his jacket. Off they went into the night -- the first evening out for either of them in years. The young man played the radio while the old man had second thoughts about going into a bar with rainbow banners draped over the windows. "Can't we go for pancakes instead? I want lingon berry crepes."
"No." The companion grinned, looking forward to live entertainment.
Crowds of colorfully-dressed youth spilled onto the sidewalk and music blared in front of the bar when the companion pulled close -- "We have a reservation. Here's your cane." Brusquely, he nudged the old troll's hip. "Smile. It's alright."
As the young man left to park, the old troll gathered himself, leaning on his cane when a young man standing outside the bar spotted him and came to his side. "'Sup, Pops?" The party-goer smelled like perfume, his hair cut stylishly and he was dressed in bright colors, shiny fabrics and offered his slender, smooth hand. This small act of kindness was strange and welcomed to the prideful old troll. They wended through parked cars to the curb where another young man held a clipboard acting official, "Antonio?"
The old troll was surprised again, "Yes..." He wondered how they knew him but didn't have time to ask as a white-aproned waiter stepped out the door and escorted the old troll to a small table. The old troll was treated royally -- no one was appalled by his appearance or his unsteady gait. Sitting against the wall, the old troll looked around as two gourmet coffees were sat on the table in front of him. They smelled of spices and were rich with cream. Examining the situation, the old troll saw men of every kind and a few women, well, maybe they were women, laughing as they openly touched each other's hands and faces. Familiar touches enacted with such joy -- the ambiance was warm, fluid and enchanting.
Mirth rang through the crowd at the bar, couples and small groups of men sat at tables and spoke closely as dear friends do. This is what he'd wanted all his life and a sharp sting came to the old troll's eyes. Male friends were a risky signal all his life yet what he'd longed for -- the longing was what had churned inside him -- acceptance that friendship offers. Though it took a while for the companion to arrive, the old troll enjoyed himself immensely. Lifting the coffee to his lips, "May have to come back."
The companion only smiled and went to the buffet bringing back a plate of beautifully prepared delights. The old troll looked at him, "Where's my dinner?" He didn't want to balance a plate and use his cane at the same time, and that didn't happen. Their waiter brought the old troll several plates of all manner of treats -- most was verboten for a diabetic and it was a scrumptious reprieve. As they ate, smiling and watching the shenanigans of the throng, the bar became louder. The stage was being readied; lights dimmed and microphones tested. The old troll watched, relishing the hubbub, especially when his young companion moved to sit beside him. The companion pressed a thick, folded pile of bills into the old troll's hand. "What's this?" The companion winked with a wide grin!
With whoops and a loud round of applause, an emcee took the stage and announced the performers. The old troll understood that the music would start and men, dressed as women, would perform to different songs. Seems the bills were for stuffing it into the costumes of the performers as they cruised the tables. Without hesitation, the old troll joined in the fun and earned himself several lip stick prints on his bald pate. What an interesting evening -- why the old troll began whooping and hollering along with the others as the performers acted like world-class chanteuses or innocent, twittering adolescent girls during their presentations. Sequins glimmered, wigs wobbled, hips swayed and long, red fingernails touched the old troll's cheek a few times -- hilariously suggestive and the old troll laughed loud and hard releasing a few more ties that still bound him invisibly to ancient falsehoods.
During intermission, the companion suggested they leave; the old troll tired quickly. With the same care and consideration, the old troll was escorted outside and into the car. In the mirror on the visor, the old troll spit on his handkerchief and rubbed off the lipstick smiling, "The sign said they have a Sunday brunch."
"We'll see..." The companion had noted the old troll was more unsteady with the passing weeks.
As the companion helped with undressing that night, the old troll asked, "What charity did we donate to? Some kind of community center or an art program?"
"To a group home -- the gay and lesbian children often have to leave their homes. There are children born into the wrong sexed bodies -- and others... The lucky kids find their way to that home. It's a safe place that helps them until they're stronger inside themselves." That was all he said.
The old troll thought about that -- the years he'd kept that churning feeling and the thoughts so deeply hidden and he thought of his financially successful life and weighed it against the joy he'd missed. He wondered what would have happened if he had realized he was homosexual when he was young and told his parents but he'd had no inkling of his differences as a boy. The burn of his abandonment came later and still singed his psyche. He'd destroyed his own family beyond repair. "Come stay with me while the news is on, we'll see if Barcelona won." The old troll didn't really care about the news or futbol -- the melancholia of the moment demanded a warm touch to salve the sharp edge of remembrances. They lay side by side for a moment as the old troll's recollections and observations pieced together a question, "You know so much about these hidden things -- things I never knew... And you seem so relaxed with the arcane, and well -- all the unmentionables..."
"No one calls a linguist for celebrations -- they call to help solve problems. Emergency rooms, mental institutions, jails, courtrooms - my life has been spent dealing with every kind of difference and how people accept, resist or deny them."
"I thought you were translating documents -- business contracts and financial statements..."
"Translations are the bulk of my work now. When I was younger, I was an interpreter."
Both of their bodies were tense as they watched Berlusconi's latest bimbo prance alongside him as he smiled and lied. They didn't even flinch at the leader's appalling behavior parading his newest mistress on international television. The old troll was thinking and thinking hard dredging up bits of past conversations and what he'd experienced that night in the bar. "Are you gay?" He whispered.
The air was still as a hard silence fell between them for a moment. "Yes." The companion moved to stand.
The old troll grasped his arm and pulled him close but couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. For some reason, "Thank you." jumped out of his throat.
Fluid ease between the two men came about as life continued quietly. Yes, the old troll decided he liked the Sunday brunch at the bar and insisted on sitting in the same booth where he'd first enjoyed himself. The waitstaff was superb, offering him excellent service and flirtatious respect for the old troll's generous tips. Men from other tables stopped by to speak to the old troll -- bright, smiling men who often hugged the old troll. Had they shared similar pasts? The old troll wondered and enjoyed the short moments of open camaraderie. The companion watched and smiled.
The old troll was less soft-spoken as his hearing diminished with his health. The companion stayed by him helping him find a minute hearing aid to keep the troll from turning the volume on the tele so high the windows shook. Nights found them sitting together holding hands, as was their custom. Simply holding hands and enjoying their evenings brought a rich end to their days. The increasing forgetfulness of the old troll simplified their lives in many respects and the companion felt the changes happen and the coming darkness. He couldn't abandon his old troll and didn't want to.
A taxi dropped the old troll at home after a long day at the doctor's office. He waited until the companion returned from work and announced that he'd been suffering with cystic fibrosis for much of his life -- that accounted for his lethargy, forgetfulness and increasing problems. It was a difficult, silent night though neither cried, they sat on the couch together holding hands as their thoughts began to absorb bits of what the diagnosis meant for them. It wasn't long afterward that the old troll's doctor ordered hospice care -- the old troll was "actively dying."
Scooping up all the scattered, razor-sharp thoughts that filled his mind, the companion made phone calls the next morning before he left for work. "I'm moving my office into the sunroom this weekend." He kissed the old troll on his forehead after breakfast. They looked at each other for a moment; the companion cried all the way to work and the old troll bit his lower lip as he rinsed their coffee cups.
When he returned that evening, the companion was met with a crew of nurses and assistants, all helpful and concerned. A hospital bed had been delivered and the old troll's bedroom was arranged differently. Portable toilet, oxygen pump, all manner of equipment filled the room now. The companion was handed a schedule of the various carers who would be coming. Then, all the professionals left.
Looking at the old troll's face, he tried to smile. "It's alright."
The house was silent as the two met at the door to the troll's bedroom, "Downhill from here." The old troll whispered. "They say six months, max."
For the first time they embraced, feeling each other's bodies tremble. "We have a while longer..." The companion put the troll into the hospital bed, "I'm bringing in the daybed and moving the furniture this weekend -- this doesn't feel like home." He cleaned up and in the hum of the oxygen pump, he quietly climbed into the bed beside the old troll. Not from sympathy or pity, but his own need for comfort, the companion held the old troll against him as the sleeping pills pulled the old troll into dreams.
Knowing an incredible loss was coming, the companion steeled himself inside. Prioritizing his needs, and his old troll's required treatments the young man wisely chose two concepts to guide him toward and past his loss -- clarity and grace. This was a foolish time for secrets or lies, and he foresaw the need to remain patient in order to keep the old troll moving toward his death on a gentle, smooth path. This would be difficult for both of them, certainly, and the companion had to survive it without regrets; he had survived without regrets before.
The next few days were chaotic until the companion and the troll made a routine that suited them. When a carer came, the companion left to shop and run errands, always returning with a cheeseburger and a strawberry shake to split with the troll. That mini-celebration lifted their spirits for the rest of their day. The diabetic diet was altered dramatically to include previously-banned treats and the nightstand looked like a tiny military base with medicine bottles lined up in rows like soldiers. A notated calendar with a tablet of graph paper recorded all the medications and dosages. Life wasn't the usual and it changed by a few centimeters each week; several millimeters daily.
Depending on how the nights and days went with the old troll, the companion shaped his work schedule to include an afternoon nap alongside him. Their nights were filled with videos, usually comedies, though the troll often fell asleep. The diabetic diet went to hell completely as the old troll became weaker and apathetic and their nights were always peaceful. They lived for those hours on an island of warmth in embrace. Life improved slightly as medications were added and altered -- an anti-depressant brought a small glimmer back to the old troll's eyes.
A subdued joy occurred during the third month on a bright Saturday morning. Since care givers were off on weekends, the old troll made his way to the shower chair with his walker. The companion put on music and came to shave, shampoo and give his old troll a quick scrub. They enjoyed the troll's showers, the companion admiring the thick body hair of the troll and as always, respecting his dignity, allowed the troll to clean his privates for himself. The sudsing ensued as an Italian opera rang through the house - Verdi. The companion finished the ablutions and began straightening the bath as the troll asked, "What's for lunch -- cheeseburger?"
"I don't want to go out -- pasta salad sound good?"
"Promise not to die while you're gone." The old troll chuckled.
"How about sandwiches? I'm looking forward to our nap." The companion admitted -- he had a plan for that afternoon.
"Is this too much for you? You're working two jobs at least..." the old troll asked, feeling he'd overburdened his companion who was now his carer.
"Would you believe me if I told you it's an honor to be with you?" The companion said. "Let's lunch on the back porch." Under the shade of the grape arbor, the two enjoyed lunch outside, then went in to nap. With the windows open and in a cool breeze, they lay close in the hospital bed. The old troll looked over at his companion, he noticed in the bright afternoon sunlight how pale the skin of his companion was and how almost translucent the irises of his eyes were. Such a pale man, so few whiskers, but thick, pale eyelashes looking like someone had powdered them.
The pale eyes shifted to the troll's eyes. "I love you." He said softly.
"I don't need any pity." Immediately jumped from the troll's lips -- self-defense.
"None offered." The companion's slender hand came to the troll's face and the companion's lips closed in for a small kiss on the troll's chin.
The old troll wasn't so experienced with the ways of intimate affection, only through romance novels and that was fiction - exaggeration to sell the weakly-plotted stories. His thoughts defaulted into the practical, "Why did you say that?"
"I want you to know I love you. I find you endearing." The companion stated.
"Endearing?" The old troll was flummoxed with that and became distressed as his companion shifted to kiss the old troll on the lips. Surprised, the old troll drew a deep, fast breath. The churning in his chest began. "What is it you want from me?"
"I want to give you a ring." The companion said.
"What? Do you want to marry me?" Confusion threw those words out of the old troll's lips.
"Did I ask?" The companion whispered a little put-out but continued. "You don't wear your wedding band. When you die, I want you to wear a ring -- in a million years, someone will find your bones and know the man who filled your skeleton was loved. I've never asked you for anything, and don't expect anything. Our life together has been good, wouldn't you say? Neither one of us is lonely any longer... We survived long enough to make a home." He kissed the old troll again. "May I love you for that?"
They lay together in the warmth of the afternoon, the companion dozing and the old troll in serious thought. Ruminating over the word `endearing,' he decided that perhaps the companion had met a series of manipulative, rough men -- perhaps even abusive to his companion's mild nature. Then, that word he used, "survived" bothered him. Suddenly he understood what the companion meant. He'd never considered suicide as an option for all the taboo thoughts and churning that cost him his family. Remembering their conversation on the group home -- why even children used the option... His heart stopped as he recalculated the difficult moments of his life in the light of that awareness. Never had he considered his own personal strength -- he'd always felt less than others and less than human most of his life. "...an honor to be with you..." He recalled. An honor. Things began to fall into their rightful places.
Before dreams came, the old troll leaned over and kissed the companion's hair, how fine his hair was -- light, almost like thin feathers and skin so smooth it invited his lips. The old troll's heart ached and twisted in his chest. Maybe it was his medication, maybe it was his exhaustion, maybe it was time for the old troll let go of all that had bound him away from himself -- his real self. Maybe, even at this late time in his life, he could be wholly and completely himself. How does one begin that task?
Without bitterness or recriminations and no change in expression, the old troll woke his companion and told him that he'd been attracted to men all his life. Honestly, bluntly he described or admitted the longings that had nagged him through his life and the deep yearning for acceptance. No chastising - no words offered in response as the old troll explained how he'd been separated from his family for the mention of his homosexuality. The companion took the old troll's swollen hand in his and brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss and an understanding nod.
After the great unburdening, the old troll's shoulders relaxed and he took a deep breath and watched his companion slip a slender gold band on his left ring finger. He felt loved for who and what he was and always had been. Tendrils of tranquil, cool peace crept from the feel of the ring and the touch of the companion's fingers.
A storm was brewing across town and arrived at the front porch of the old troll's home the next afternoon. The old troll's sister and brother-in-law visited with arms full of religious literature, trinkets with the dismal faces of saints and several vials of holy water. So many years had passed the siblings hardly recognized each other. The companion brought refreshments and left them to their reminiscing until it became a loud, disruptive argument. When the companion heard the old troll's raised voice, he entered the room with a cool look and asked the visitors to leave, "Now." They left grumbling that they'd light a candle and pray for his filthy soul which would surely roast eternally without proper absolution -- if it was possible.
Several hours after several pills the old troll recovered from the disruption. The companion stayed close, not letting his charge see his tears and concern, "Will they be back?"
"I doubt it." The old troll sighed. "I told them my only sin was not being who I am -- what I am. So much fear and shame for so long... Wish I'd met you when I came to America, I'd have loved you fiercely."
Chuckling as he nestled closer, "I wasn't born yet."
"How much I've missed." The old troll held his companion close to his heart, "Tell me what it's like to make love with a man." He whispered.
Long after the sun set, they lay on the bed as the companion explained how he'd met a man when he was still a boy -- the man was his doctor. Gently, the doctor had gently coaxed him to love himself and taught him the pleasures of mutual exploration. As a teen, the doctor introduced him to the ways adult men express their affection. "He loved me deeply -- so deeply..." The companion's hand sneaked under the sheet and under the old troll's tee shirt. "We were lovers through my years at the university and after."
Pushing the old troll's shirt aside, the companion moved to gently take the old troll's nipple in his lips. The old troll trembled with the sensual touches, moist kisses and tender strokes. Any turgor in his member had long been eroded by diabetes yet his skin yearned for touch -- the feel of a man pleasuring him stirred all the memories that were only embers and reignited them with the oxygen of lust. Sugary-sweet sweat coated the old troll as he moaned in unfettered pleasure.
They dined in silence until the old troll gathered his courage to ask, "Didn't your parents question your relationship with your doctor?"
"My mother probably knew, but never said anything. She wanted me to be happy and I was."
"Your father -- didn't he call the police? That man took advantage of your innocence."
"Dad left when I was born because I was different -- he was ashamed of me. Mom didn't care, she said I was perfect." The companion smiled. "My mom was the best."
"Different?"
"When human eggs are fertilized, they all begin as girls. My development stopped somewhere between being a boy and a girl. Mom wouldn't let them cut me -- that's when my dad left. She raised me like a girl at first until I told her I was a boy. I got boy clothes and I was fine. It wasn't till around fourth grade when she took me to the doctor -- I wanted to pee standing up like all boys do." The companion looked at the troll, "Understand?"
"You're transgender?"
"No. I'm a man, and my body isn't as masculine as yours, but all-male now. My doctor made sure I got the best treatment."
"Humph." The old troll thought about it for a quick moment and decided it wasn't really important. His companion loved him. His finger bore proof.
Several days later an attorney came to complete the old troll's papers and put all arrangements in order. Afterward the two were silent, laying together holding hands that each bore a slender gold band.
In the warm, humid air of June, the companion undressed the old troll, ready to enjoy the touch of his skin, and the thick, coarse hair of his chest. Stripping himself in the dark, he lay next to the old troll with a deep sigh -- ready for sleep. Under the dim light of the streetlight coming through the curtain, the old troll turned to his companion, pulling the smooth skin next to his chest. Oh, how the old troll loved feeling his lover's cool skin against him. His big hand with thick fingers went to his companion's groin -- another new experience. He'd never seen or touched the companion's, or any other man's body before. His breath jerked as he felt his companion move, offering him further access. His fingers explored slowly, expecting to find the same thing he found in his own boxers. He didn't.
"Oh... You're like a boy." The old man whispered as his fingers gently tugged the short shaft without a foreskin. Underneath were two small knots in a short scrotum. "How -- how, well..." The old troll scrambled for a descriptor, "Endearing."
Underneath his arm, the old troll felt his companion chuckling, "Endearing?" Turning on the bedside lamp, the companion stood and allowed the old troll to inspect his almost bare groin, the scars from his surgeries that constructed what resembled a set of small male genitalia. From the length and proportions, the old troll figured that it would have been the size of an adolescent's equipment. The old troll pulled out his glasses and performed a closer inspection, then looked at his companion's face. "Does it work?"
"I get erect, if that's what you mean." The companion didn't really enjoy this kind of examination and interrogation, but patiently waited till the old troll laid his head back on his pillow.
"I want to suck you." The old troll whispered as he turned the light off. "I've dreamed about that so many times."
Making sure the oxygen canula was in place, the companion straddled the old troll's face touching his deep red, though small glans to his lover's lips. The old troll looked up to see the slender, flat body move above him -- what a wonderful view, just like he'd dreamed of. So close, so private, such a deeply moving gift, he snaked his tongue out and tasted around the slit on the tip of the shaft. It offered a distinct flavor, faintly of the skin of the young man, and faintly of his musk. That had to be savored for a moment while his companion looked down and smiled, then gave a soft moan. "Yes."
Grabbing the hips of his lover, the troll rubbed his face on the pale groin, pulling his lover forward to cover his face completely -- luxuriously sensual. The short shaft hardened as his rough stubble scrubbed the tender skin pressing into his face. He sucked the nodules of testicles into his mouth, giving them a deep and thorough examination with his tongue and felt a momentary spark between his own heavy balls. He hummed with pleasure and moved his lips to encase the short shaft that nodded and twitched for a salivary coating. As if he were programmed, his tongue found the places that brought moans of pleasure above him, as if he were made to suck another man, he pressed the shaft against his palate and sucked to bring more and louder groans of pleasure. Without even noticing the changing actions, his lover's hips began moving -- short strokes in and out the troll's mouth and they were one for a moment -- only a moment before the companion whispered. "Yes, now!" Immediately, the troll began sucking to find a new flavor on his tongue -- seminal discharge, cum. Sperm? The taste wasn't as strong as his own, but a savory, luscious gift of the most intimate kind.
As the tension of his lover's body waned, he came to the troll's lips and kissed him deeply. Both shared the flavor of the companion's offering.
The next morning, they were woken abruptly by a nurse banging on the front door. They overslept! Quickly, the companion threw the sheet over the old troll who was trying to use his urinal without a mess and chuckling all the while. The companion pulled on his jeans and answered the door barefooted. This was a required visit to check the old troll's vitals and review his medications. With a sheepish blush, the companion escorted the nurse to the bedroom, noticing the smell of sex still hung in the air around the bed. He left to make coffee.
"Getting your therapy at night, huh?" The nurse asked. The old troll only smiled.
When the coffee was made, the companion asked if he could bring breakfast for the nurse as well. After raising the windows to air the room, the companion brought coffee and they reviewed the medications and enjoyed fruit and toast. The nurse was in a jovial mood as she read the labels and noted the quantity to make sure there were enough for the next week. With each bottle, she reviewed the side effects with the old troll. "The peripheral neuropathy -- are you having pain in your extremities?" She asked the old troll.
They discussed the pain control, then she asked, "Are you able to sleep well?" She asked.
"I sleep..." The old troll answered but thought for a moment. "Some nights, I wake up and, well -- memories come and I can't fall asleep again. Could you ask the pharmacist to send something stronger?"
She noted that and assured the old troll that she'd send over a different prescription. After she sipped her coffee, she looked around the room, "All else going well?"
The companion asked a few questions about contraindications and the bed bath assistant, "Could you send her three times a week? It's much easier than the shower." She made a note and glanced at the two men. "Since you've asked to pass at home, I ask you be gentle during your personal time..." She winked at the old troll, "You have no idea how fortunate -"
Fingering his slender gold band, "Yes, I do." The troll said.
After the nurse left, the companion asked the old troll about his sleep, "If snoring is any indication, it seems you're sleeping though the nights."
"Thoughts come." Was all the old troll said. He didn't tell his companion how wonderful and complete their act had made him, he was simply too tired. Fantastic dialogues came to his mind, and he couldn't bring them to his lips, he could only smile as he felt his tired body move smoothly toward an unknown.
Being an intuitive man, the companion joined in the silence and used ways to communicate with the old troll that weren't wearing. A tender touch, a light kiss, a stroke with a fruity-smelling lotion. With only the most tender ways, the companion told the old troll of his love with silent motions.
Only broken by meals, medications and carers, the two ensconced themselves together on the hospital bed closely during those days.
As sometimes happens when life wanes, the old troll experienced a sudden, though small burst of alertness -- he became hungry and moved the bed to sit up to watch the news. He spoke lovingly to his companion and smiled often remembering their nights together and eating tomatoes in the garden, the movies and books -- brunches at the bar. Hope sprung in the heart of the companion to have his old troll back again, though he was perplexed.
"I get my bed bath today, so go get a cheeseburger and a shake like you used to. Take a few moments off while the carer is here." The old troll ordered.
"Are you sure? I can make sandwiches -- we'll eat on the porch."
"Not today. I want a cheeseburger and get some fries, too." The troll pointed at the door. "Celebrate today!"
When the carer came, the companion left to get his lover's favorite treat. He stopped by the store and picked up a few groceries then went for cheeseburger and fries. By the time he got home, their meal would still be hot, the companion was looking forward to lunch. That wasn't to happen, the bag of lunch stayed on the front seat of the car as the companion pulled in behind a long, black van parked in front of the house. The back doors of the vehicle were open, a gurney with a body filled the space inside the van.
With all the composure he could gather, the companion walked toward the house as several men in slacks and jackets closed the door to the van and drove away. The carer who'd come to bathe the old troll stood on the porch in shock, tears ran down her face. "I don't know what happened -- he fell asleep and I couldn't wake him." The young woman began sobbing, "I called the nurse, but she didn't come in time."
Even in his own sorrow, he wrapped his arm around the woman, "It's to be expected - part of your job. Did he go peacefully?"
"He -- he just fell asleep and stopped breathing." She was sobbing.
They went into the house, to the bedroom to find the nurse who'd visited them before. She was noting the medications and told the companion, "I have to take all these pills -- there are difficult moments ahead as you adjust." She said. Opening the bottle of the sleeping pills to find it empty, she stuck her finger in and pulled out a small piece of folded graph paper, glanced at it and pressed it into the hand of the companion who was fighting back sobs. "This is for you."
Stuffing it in his pocket, the suddenly-no-longer companion looked at her. "What needs to be done now?"
Taking this grim yet familiar situation in hand, the nurse called the carer to straighten the bedroom, "Then call the medical supply to pick up their equipment." After digging through her bag, she handed the companion a brochure; "Notifications After Death." Then she sat down and assessed him for thoughts of self-harm. "Is there anyone you can call or stay with for a few days?"
He thought for a while. "This has been my home, and my life..." Looking around the room, "No. I don't want to leave."
"Will you call if you feel too alone or depressed?" He knew what she was asking, and though unsure, he steeled himself -- clarity and grace. He recalled briefly his pain after his doctor passed -- yes, the sting would pass, and the mundane tasks of life would reorder themselves differently, but they would return to fill his emptiness.
"Yes." He took her card and escorted her to the door, needing time alone to ease into a private outpouring of sorrow to cleanse the wound of loss before the suturing of his heart could begin.
After she left, he put her card in his shirt pocket to feel the folded piece of paper she'd given him from the pill bottle. In small wrinkly script, "Thanks would be meager tokens for the life you've given me -- the life I could never give myself. We survived to love. I leave not from pain, but in completion."
Fin.
Completion