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It was inevitable. The longer you knew Gilbert, the more inevitable that inevitableness became. He couldn’t control it, at the end of the day. It was okayed by the doctors, he was allowed to drive, he had regular check-ins to ensure his medications were still working, but still—sooner or later, it reared its ugly head. And Matthew, to his credit, had taken the warning without fear or disgust. He’d assured Gilbert he didn’t mind, he would do whatever he could to help, it wasn’t weird, it was just another part of a guy named Gilbert. And I happen to love that guy, Matthew said, smiling up at him like the angel that he was. Gilbert didn’t deserve him, but he’d known that since the moment they bumped into each other in the elevator. Going down? Turned out they lived in the same number, one floor apart. Sometimes, in the early days of their relationship, Gilbert poked at the ceiling with his broomstick. If Matthew was feeling indulgent, he’d stomp out a little beat in return. Shave and a haircut? Two bits! Sometimes they still did it, when Gilbert was walking in on him in the bedroom or the bathroom. Matthew always laughed. You’ve seen me naked, Gil. You don’t have to knock. But he definitely did have to, and sweet Matthew always knocked right back.
Really, he shouldn’t have bothered worrying. But, of course, he did, until that fateful day arrived.
In retrospect, he was glad it wasn’t a public affair. They were in the kitchen, for better or worse, enjoying a perfectly normal breakfast of—you guessed it—pancakes and bacon. Matthew was cooking, Gilbert was pouring their glasses of orange juice. Normally, they didn’t come on when he was standing, so he hadn’t even been thinking about it as a possibility. It was usually when he was sitting down, or lounging in bed, or—once, terrifyingly—in his car, in a grocery store parking lot. Almost always when his mind was wandering. He’d described to his doctor that it felt sort of like, when he was skipping from thought to thought, he tripped or got caught in a crack. The film reel jammed in the projector, slapping again and again, round and round without going anywhere. A system overload prompting a restart. That’s basically what’s happening, his doctor had told him. It’s too much stimuli, your brain sort of forgets how to handle it.
So I’m short-circuiting?
Well. That’s one way of putting it.
Gilbert was a malfunctioning machine. Who wanted one of those?
One second he was standing in their shared kitchen, pouring his beautiful boyfriend a glass of orange juice, and the next second he was on the floor, and every muscle in his body was tensed hard as a rock. Light became sound became pain became darkness. He was there, but he was gone.
What Matthew heard, first and foremost, was the almighty thump of two hundred German pounds hitting the floor. When he spun around, the true severity of the situation grasped his heart: Gilbert was on the floor, his limbs flexed to the point of painful quivering, his body convulsing to an erratic rhythm. It was his face, however, that frightened Matthew the most. Those grey-pink-red eyes that Matthew found so uniquely beautiful were just—absent. No personality nor humor lighted them; it was as if Gilbert were asleep with his eyes open, his face a blank slate with foamy spittle collecting at his lips. And, as Matthew watched during that frozen moment, the white bubbles gained a subtle trace of scarlet. Blood.
That snapped him into action. He turned off the stove—it wouldn’t do to set the apartment on fire during this time of crisis—and hurried to push the table and chairs out of the way. Then, though a large part of him was deeply paranoid of letting this new, dangerous-to-himself Gilbert out of his sight, Matthew turned his back for a few precious seconds to get a dish towel from one of the drawers. He knelt at Gilbert’s side and gingerly lifted his head to place the makeshift cushion beneath his skull. Gilbert had already landed on his side, so it took just a bit of coaxing to get his limbs into the recovery position, though of course the jerking made it incomplete. Matthew so wanted to take hold of him, to share some of the burden of this terrible shaking, but he knew that wasn’t the right thing to do. So he sat back on his feet, watching over his love and keeping one eye on the ticking wall clock. He hadn’t looked when it started; that was one thing he’d forgotten. Was there anything else? He hoped not, but he was too ensnared in fight-or-flight to break down the list. There was no analyzing. Just waiting with his heart hammering along with Gilbert’s seizing.
Then, at last, it stopped. Gilbert drew in one long, deep breath as his legs stretched out bolt straight and his fingers twisted themselves into fists—and then he was limp and an exhausted sigh was heaving from his chest. He closed his eyes, panting to catch his breath. Still, Matthew only watched. He didn’t want to be the one who broke the silence. He had never met the Gilbert who existed right after this.
He finally spoke, with the rasp of a hangover: “How long?”
“Two minutes and sixteen seconds,” Matthew replied, as precise as he could get.
Another groaning sigh. Gilbert slowly sat up, eyes opening for only a second before wincing shut. “Turn the lights off.” Matthew leapt up to flick the switch, but smiled to himself when Gilbert added, “Please.”
He was standing when Matthew turned back, holding the dish cloth and looking down at his clothes, both of which were soaked with orange juice. “Sorry,” he mumbled, setting the empty carton back on the table. “I guess I got a mouthful into your glass.”
“Don’t say sorry,” Matthew said immediately. “It’s nothing to apologize for. I didn’t even notice the juice, I should’ve cleaned it up while you were . . .”
But he didn’t know how to talk about it.
Gilbert finally looked at him, and it was his smile, crooked and pale-lipped and genuine, that told Matthew everything was alright again. “You did really well,” he said, holding up the towel a little. “Thank you, Liebling.”
Matthew closed the distance between them—stepping in a healthy puddle of juice in the process—and took the dish towel to gently wipe the lingering drool from Gilbert’s chin. “What can I do for you now?” he whispered. He still hadn’t touched him skin-to-skin. In his mind, Gilbert was still hurting; he needed to be swaddled and fed warm soup and read stories to in a voice soft as lambs’ ears.
Gilbert’s smile lightened, and now Matthew saw how drained he was. It was a bit heart-breaking, seeing well-rested, Gilbert Morning Person Beilschmidt reduced to this so fast. Two minutes and sixteen seconds, that as all it took. Matthew, not for the first time, marvelled at his love and the mysterious inner workings that made him who he was. It was the same mix of sympathy and admiration he felt when he woke up—rare occasion that it was—before Gilbert and watched the faint flutter of his white, pigmentless lashes against his cheek. It was a shame he had to shoulder the burden, but so incredible that he did it without stumble or complaint. And, though perhaps Matthew should not have thought of it this way, there was a particular loveliness to Gilbert even in his ails. Those eyes were so pretty, and the contrast of his off-white hair, the slightly tender pink that kissed places like the rims of his eyes, the tips of his ears, the crescents beneath his fingernails . . . And even now, ravaged as he was, there was that air of tenderness, a softness so strange to see on his strong, loud love. It made Matthew want to just pick him up and hold him close, but of course that was impossible.
“Thank you,” Gilbert said again, his voice thinner this time, “but I just need a nap right now.” He nuzzled the wispy curls on top of Matthew’s head. “I’m sorry about breakfast.”
Matthew glanced at the bacon, half-fried in its pan. That could be saved, but the pancakes might not make it. Still, it had only been two minutes, and this was a Saturday. They could eat breakfast as late as they liked. Normal was for boring people.
“Okay,” he said, stretching up to kiss Gilbert on the nose. “Have a good nap. I’ll get all this cleaned up. We’ll eat when you’re ready.”
Gilbert hesitated in the doorway. “You don’t have to wait for me.”
Matthew looked up from the paper towel he’d stooped to retrieve from beneath the sink. “Of course I do. I’ll always wait for you.” A slight pause, because he could never get the vowel sounds just right: “Liebling.”
Now Gilbert softened completely, veritably melting there in the doorway. His head tilted to rest against the jamb and he smiled. “Ich liebe dich.”
Matthew returned the smile. If that was all Gilbert thought would scare him away, they had absolutely nothing to worry about. “Ich liebe dich.”
Gilbert wasn’t sure if he really believed in the old saying that it all evens out in the end, but it did seem only fair that after he was physically and mentally exhausted he always had the best sleeps. He went deep, deep down into himself for these, past the levels of dreams or easy waking, down below even the realm of the big-toothed, glowing-dongled fish. And yet, the recovery was much like the episode itself; when he came out of it, he felt like he’d only lost a bit of time with no concept of how large that bit might be. Just that groggy sense of I was doing something, now, where was I?
He didn’t get up right away. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the closed door of the bedroom. Perhaps Matthew was watching television on mute, afraid of disturbing him. Or maybe he left. Despite himself, fear cast a shadow over Gilbert’s heart. No, Matthew wouldn’t have just left, surely. He knew him better than that. But there was also that part of Gilbert, the part that had never quite grown past the little pale boy on the playground, careful vampire you’ll burn up in the sun don’t touch him you’ll catch the disease, that believed he was not worth staying with. For his appearance, and for this, as well. Who wanted to live in fear that something might happen? Who wanted to walk beside someone in the mall, knowing they might become something to stare at? You always make things out to be worse than they really are, his brother had told him once. But only when they’re about you. And this was true, Gilbert knew it was. He was an expert in localized pessimism, but just because he knew the fog was there didn’t mean he could see through it.
There was a knock on the door.
Gilbert froze, mid-despair. Breath held, he reached out to tap his knuckles against the wall. Shave and a haircut?
Matthew opened the door, glowing golden and violet, a tray of pancakes and bacon and, yes, orange juice in his hands. He carried it over, climbed into bed with Gilbert and snuggled up with him. Gilbert put his arm around his darling and let Matthew feed him syrup-soaked bites and, when he’d had his fill, nestled his head against Matthew’s sweatered chest and listened to his heart beat, thump-thump, two bits.
The End.