Two Gardens. (C) 2000 Christoph Tihanyi.
Disclaimer: This story contains homosexual themes. If you are bothered by this, why are you reading the Nifty archive? Characters in themselves are fictional. Feel free to email me at webtrash@unpunk.com.
I. Adam.
A heavy rain beats down against the window, beads heavy with water and glistening in the half-light of dawn, leaving a trail on their sometimes hastened, mostly relaxed path down, down onto the outside sill and away. For the first few minutes of waking up, everything feels warm, comfortable, relaxed. You trail the smooth surface of the glass with your fingers, listening to the downpour, the only sounds your existence the persistant drumming of rain on the roof, a steady staccato of nature against the old tin roof, and the eternal, steady ticking of your watch on the night table.
Defying the warmth and comfort of the seemingless endless folds of down and quilt, you pull yourself off the bed, your feet curling instantly on contact with the hardwood floor. A chest of drawers, pulled half-open in a long-forgotten search for clean boxers, yields today's outfit, a comfortable black jumper, and a some freshly washed Levi's.
Your housemate left early, her note summarizing her day in it's childish script, full of flourishes and curlicues. There is a five dollar note on the kitchen table for milk, a hint that your dear Danielle managed to empty half a carton of milk to make her breakfast before you.
Half an hour later, over leftover pizza and green tea, you scan for jobs in the newspaper, your fingers tapping erratically over the more promising ones. Three of four perfunctory mental to-do-notes later, you grab your jacket and keys and brave the outside storm to your car.
It's almost eleven as you pull down the long, ferny drive of his house, the rain giving way to hesitant beams of sun, the first warmth of the day as you sit in the aging Honda Civic, putting words together in your head, building confidence and ignoring the cravings for nicotine. Your hands tremble slightly, you scratch your chin, look at your watch, anything to keep from thinking about the task ahead. Just for a second, you relent, begin to turn the key in the ignition, beaten down quickly by the burst of self-criticism which taunts you, the voice in your head a thin, sharp violin, it's wooden wail alarming in it's clarity.
The door opens a few inches and his mother peers through the crevice at you from behind the chain.
"Good morning, Leah."
"Morning, Adam. You here to see Chad?"
"Yes, please."
The door closes, the latch clicks and rattles, and the door swings open, a warm gust of familar aromas, of baking and pancakes and sandalwood incense holds you in it's homely grip. You wander into the living room.
"He's not woken up yet. I swear if that boy would be eight years younger, he'd be up by now." Adam's mother's eyes twinkle as she bustles towards his room to rouse her son. Seated on the leather four-seater, you gaze around at the room as if seeing it for the first time, the violin hanging on the wall, the umbrella tree on the pompous brass stand, the Men's Health magazine on the granite coffee table.
Chad walks in and sits down awkwardly next to you.
"Mornin' Ad."
"Morning', Chadleigh."
The small, familiar joke eases Chad and you both share a chuckle, like a secret code exchanged by co-conspirators. Nerves aside, he leans over and kisses you quickly on the lips.
"So."
"So."
A moment passes, and I gaze at the place where his mohawk used to be.
"You shaved your hair."
"Got a job working in a kitchen. Had to neaten up."
"Ah."
The rain begins again, hammering relentlessly outside, the picture window framing the scene outside. Bushes, ferns and trees writhe and twist, as in pain or terror. You knuckle a tear away from the corner of your eye. do not show your emotions do not show your emotions do NOT SHOW HIM HOW MUCH YOU WANT HIM BACK
Chad crawls closer and rests his hand on your knee, looking through your eyes and into your soul.
"I know this hurts, Ad. I'm going through it too."
"Can we talk in your room? I .. your parents .."
Chad nods, and helps you up. The strength, the security in that grasp, the ease with which you're lifted to your feet, is another twist of the knife in your heart. Casually, he grabs an apple on his way up the stairs in front of you.
There you are, on the bed, the bed that started it all. A casual glance at a party, a clumsy tumble under these very sheets, and eleven weeks of bliss. Two months, three weeks to the day. Two months, three weeks was all it took to change your life forever. (i live in you, you live in me, we are two gardens haunted by eachother.)
You talk. Specifics don't matter. You talk with him of the pain, the pressure, our friends. Of what happened during the break up. Who started it? Who finished it? Does it matter? Not quarreling, not bitching, just two guys talking. Like friends, like brothers. Two guys who just happen to love eachother. You begin to cry silently. A single tear rolls down your cheek, followed by another. Then, as if drawn by some unheard voice, a distant command of great urgency, two strong arms are around you, holding you against his bare chest. You melt into his warmth.
His words cut the sudden peace and quite with definition, meaning, distinction, like a newborn baby's wail first thing in the mourning..
"I love you Ad. I want us to try again."
"You hurt me Chad."
"I know. What I did was wrong."
"Anyone else, Chad, anyone but her-"
His grip becomes suddenly tight, forceful, secure.
"She means nothing!"
You look around the room from within his arms, looking for a diversion. Your drum kit sits in the corner of the room, untouched. Three weeks, two days since those maple sticks were lifted. You look back to him.
"Stay here for the day. Stay with me. Then decide whether or not you want to try again."
"We can't start over, Chad."
"I never said we'd start over Adam. It's too late for that. I said try again."
"Let's jam for a while Chad."
A smile creeps across his face.
"Sure, let's play."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- To be continued. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------