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Harold had never seen such sadness perfectly encapsulated in a human. Jude was plagued by a sickness that no tending could heal; he was forever damaged no matter the wanton need to heal him.
The feeling was reminiscent of Jacob, the inability to provide any comfort despite the urge to comfort — to try.
Jude would fade into fits of darkness, where his smile would slip from his face when something grew too hilarious, how his hands would clench tightly on his upper biceps, his face paling quickly.
Harold had felt the desperate need to shake Jude’s shoulders; curse at him for his actions. It was as if Jude felt he didn’t deserve simple human expressions.
Harold wanted the boy to live, smile without the tight screwing of his eyes with it.
But just like Jacob, there was this border he couldn’t pass, no matter the praying or urge to cross.
Jude was ill, not through the necessity of a vile virus corrupting his cells or the slow but steady deterioration of his body.
He was sick in his mind.
Something Harold knew he could never access, could never ease out of Jude.
There was something ancient about his eyes, something that no amount of living could be equal with.
Harold was growing old; his back twinged in sudden pain when he stood too quickly. His face was sparsely decorated with sun spots tangled with his sudden wrinkles.
Looking at himself in the mirror, there was no denying that he wasn’t old; his back held a slight hunch, and his voice wobbled sometimes.
And yet, he felt young in comparison to Jude.
Jude spoke differently than most his age, instead of the steady confidence of males in their later thirties — knowing the security of their life, the privilege they held.
Jude’s voice often lilted on certain syllables; there wasn’t a definite cause why, but his tongue would pronounce his S softer than his C, and his voice would quieten when he began talking continuously.
It seemed like he was trying to make his presence less noticeable with his actions.
The boy sat across from him, a book in his lax grip as his eyes skimmed over the pages steadily. Harold knew how not to appear as if he was analyzing Jude; searching for any slight ticks, as if the boy was something broken that needed to be fixed.
Harold still couldn’t help not studying him; Jude was some unexplainable mystery that no one knew much about. Harold wished he could learn more, cross that border that prevented him from entering.
“Jude,” Harold spoke after a minute of silence grew too hard for him to keep, placing his respective book on the coffee table between them.
Jude immediately placed down his novel, not even caring to glance once more at the page to memorize the sentence he left off on.
His finger was clamped between the two pages he was reading, the index stuck in the middle of the story. He tilted his head at Harold, “Yes?”
“How is Willem doing? I haven’t heard from him in a while.” It was a topic to free Jude from the constricts he self-imposed on himself.
Jude had limitations when discussing himself, but it was free territory for others.
He was beyond open when it came to his friends, his face glowing on the chance to express his feelings on their current projects.
“Good,” Jude smiled; it was an odd — almost unpracticed action. It drew the edges of his eyes to crinkle slightly. Drawing crow feet to etch across his features as his lips drew tight against his features, there was something off with the expression. Something Harold could never touch upon.
It was still a pleasant expression on Jude’s besides his usual void.
“He is busy right now, filming a sequel to a movie he made earlier. He’s in Britain currently, going to New Zealand next.”
Jude let his finger slip from between his book pages, shifting his hand to the arm of the couch he sat in. Heaving himself higher, his chest expanded slightly within his thin woolen vest.
“Seems like he’s traveling everywhere.” Harold smiled, trying to keep the question from bearing into his statement: Is Jude okay?
“He is,” Jude nodded, but his words were light — excited even. “I was walking down the street, and these two girls were talking about him.” His words weren’t weighed by jealousy or even the lightest tone of envy with Willem’s position. He was genuinely amazed at the reaction Willem was pulling from everyone.
Harold couldn’t say he was shocked by the reaction, “He’s becoming big league. At this rate, he won’t even be able to leave his house without being noticed.”
It was with those words that Harold noticed a tightening to Jude’s expression, how his smile fell barely, resting just to a bare grin.
“Yes.” He pulled his attention away from Harold and resumed his lost focus on his book.
When he picked up the novel, Harold saw a slight tremble in his fingers. Something so minute that anyone who didn’t know the control that Jude applied to himself would simply overlook it.
Harold wanted to press, ask more questions, draw a response out of Jude — be it anger, sadness, or something besides this unbreakable voidness that Jude thought was better than himself.
He wished he could heal Jude from his pain, take it, and bear it alone so Jude would finally be free from the shackles of the past.
But Harold knew that thinking was unhelpful; he knew that his love couldn’t heal Jude and wouldn’t take the boy’s pain and forget about it.
It was hopeful thinking, but Harold had lived long enough to know that nothing could fix the wounds inflicted in the mind.
Jude held a beauty many noticed; it wasn’t in the distinct way models were beautiful, with long limbs and this certain grace about them. Jude was beautiful in the apparent ways he spoke, acted, and performed.
Everyone had to look at him, even if there was no need.
J.B. and Willem used to joke, high and tired, that out of them all, Jude would be the fastest one to get noted with notoriety.
There was something that Jude had that no one else could copy.
People naturally gravitated towards Jude at parties, he’d respond by moving away from them.
Slowly, it became known around the college campus that Jude didn’t care to be surrounded by others, only those who were his friends.
This was why it was expected to see Jude surrounded by Willem’s co-stars, asking a plethora of questions, which Jude answered with simple — almost practiced, ease.
“How old are you again?” One of the louder actors asked, head tilting to their side as Jude turned to stare at him.
“Forty,” Jude answers, nodding at them with another question following after.
“How did you two meet?” An old gentleman asked; his face was shriveled. Exposing his age clearly.
“College,” Willem answered, nearing Jude.
The party wasn’t what they were used to, with loud music and drunk bodies swaying messily together with the low thrum from the music.
This party was an undeniable adult one; people took light sips from their wine, as the music playing was slow jazz.
It was nothing like the others.
“My wife and I met in college too,” a girl nodded towards them, smirking at Willem.
Willem was closer to Carter than his other co-workers; they both united over the shared quality of not realizing their sexuality until they got older. Both struggled in different aspects.
She was funny, sometimes a bit cruel.
Jude smiled at her. It was small, something to show that he had heard her statement. He leaned further on his left side; it wasn’t noticeable; Willem knew his leg must've been aching.
“Do you want to sit down?” He whispered, leaning closer to Jude’s ear than before.
Jude slid his eyes over to him; the act was nearly feline. Shaking his head, he whispered, “I’m fine.”
He never was.
The drive back from the party was more tense than prior; Jude stared out the window. A frown was in place as the passing streetlights flew in a dizzying blur. “They are nice,” Jude mumbled, nodding towards Willem. Not looking at him.
“They can be.” He shrugged.
Jude didn’t speak; he drew his body tighter against his seat. He’d get into these unexplainable moods, something that Willem couldn’t break him out of.
“Jude,” he began, slowing down at the red light flickering over the rain-slicked streets. It had been pouring ever since they entered the party.
“Yes?” Jude returned, tilting his head to the side. His voice seemed guarded as if he was scared of something becoming brought up.
“Are—” Willem glanced at him; Jude looked tired. “How’s your leg?”
Jude shrugged, “It’s fine.”
It always was.
Jude never tried to admit any of his pain.
“Okay.” Willem didn’t push, he didn’t want to argue in the car.
Sleeping was a tortuous affair for Jude; his memories were ridden from his years with Brother Luke.
The caresses from strangers, gripping his thighs, whispering such vulgar things that sometimes it wasn’t even the act that caused the disgust to rise but the words that accompanied it.
Some would settle their palm against his throat, adjust their body weight solely to that, and nearly strangle him until his gurgles became desperate gasps.
They’d withdraw, an evil spark in their eyes as they’d smile at him, bending down to whisper in his ears. “You like it.”
He didn’t.
In the mess of his sleep-addled brain, sometimes waking up, the scenery would morph into the motel’s. The dirty floor, the scent of sex.
The nightmare tonight was worse, vivid, and painful. It was as if he could still feel the pain throbbing in his lower back from it, stifling a sharp gasp when Jude’s eyes scanned the area.
His room in Harold’s house eased; the wall was painted a dull blue while the floor was wooden. Pulling inwards on himself, Jude stared at the window opposing him.
He felt disgusting.
Standing, he moved towards the kitchen. His feet padded softly over the wooden floors until he stood in the large room.
He would’ve cut himself already, but Harold had already thrown away his razors before he came.
Moving towards the area with tea packets, Jude began brewing water. Doing most of it with the dim lighting from the moon outside. The silver glow radiated off of the kitchen counters.
He never thought he’d get to live a life like he is.
“Jude?” Harold spoke from the edge of the kitchen, “Fuck sakes. I thought someone broke in,” he sighed, turning on the kitchen light.
The room became almost blindingly bright.
“Sorry Harold,” Jude turned, staring at the other.
Harold’s hair was white; his face held more wrinkles than when they first met. Harold was frowning; looking around the kitchen, he noticed the water on the stove.
Moving to sit on the island in the kitchen, Harold stared at Jude. “What are you up to?” His voice was light, questioning but not accusing.
“Couldn’t sleep.” Jude shrugged, grabbing two tea packets — not asking Harold which one he’d like; he already knew he liked jasmine and lemon.
“Did you have nightmares?” Harold spoke from his position; Jude didn’t move. His hand hovered over two mugs.
“Yes.”
Harold softly said, “Would you like to tell me?”
Jude shook his head before vocalizing his displeasure; he couldn’t bear it if Harold learned about his life before. If he learnt about the disgusting person that he was, how he lived.
He knew he was tricking Harold, willfully letting him live with a false narrative of how Jude actually was.
“Jude,” Harold began, his voice unnervingly soft. “I’d never judge you. You could’ve killed someone and I’d still be here.”
It was easier to say than actually uphold; Jude turned, smiling. “I’m honestly good, thank you though.”
Jude had a terrifying presence in the office; he sent the new hires skittering away without even speaking to them, while the ones who worked there the longest expanded on Jude’s reputation — telling false yet believable stories of his work.
Everyone who worked in the office seemed to have their skin diminished into an ashy shade with the long and endless hours spent inside.
The envy that spiked through everyone when they saw a tall, ideally bronze male entering the office was immediate.
He seemed almost awkward, shifting on his heels as he clung onto a fast food bag. Nodding at the receptionist, he adjusted his sunglasses, keeping them covering his eyes. “Hello,” he greeted, smiling at her.
She returned it significantly, eyes widening slightly, “Hi.” It almost sounded breathless.
“I’m here to see Jude.” The other nodded, “Jude St. Francis.” He finished as if she wouldn’t know by his first name alone.
They all did.
She threw a weak glance at a co-worker near her, sighing. She looked back at Willem, “He’s going through a court trial. Currently, he’s very busy. Could I take a message?”
The male laughed, “No, it’s okay — I just want to see him.”
Gnawing on her upper lip, the girl sighed, “Furthest room on the left. Knock before you enter.”
Thanking her, the man left. It almost seemed like he walked straight from a beach; red decorated his shoulders as freckles popped on his cheeks.
He was wildly attractive.
Willem passed a few sleep-deprived workers; they threw him weak glances as they continued walking.
He stopped in front of the door, proudly displaying Jude St. Francis on the wall, the plaque glowing in the hallway lightning.
Knocking, Willem opened the door before Jude even allowed an answer.
Jude appeared thinner, his chest taunt as his face was narrower. He always looked like this when Willem returned from abroad; his eyes lightened when he saw him.
“Willem,” he spoke his name with apparent excitement but kept his tone even. Jude closed a folder before him, standing as Willem approached him. Making sure to close the door after himself.
“Busy, huh?” He smiled, looking at the countless papers strewn over his desk.
Jude shrugged, “I suppose. How was work though? You’re back early.”
“Got a minute for a break, decided to stop by here.” Willem smiled at the unshielded expression that returned him.
Only he got to see Jude like this. He loved it.
He loved him.
The bed was cold; it recently was. Never carrying the warmth it once did when Willem was still alive. Living, breathing.
A flannel was draped over Willem’s side; the scent faded, and Jude held it tightly against his chest.
His chest aches with the lack of Willem within it.
The News channels plays a memorial dedicated to Willem for his passing non-stop — broadcasting about his kindness and love; Jude couldn’t watch it.
His mind was hurting without him.
Jude felt the weight of the world press against him; it was suffocating. Intolerable until Jude would picture Willem, sometimes even seeing him, at the edge of their bedroom.
Smothering beneath a bright light, it almost seemed the sun was made just for him as he waved at Jude.
A small smile on his features.
Willem never beckoned him to follow; he’d just move his hand in a small gesture — a greeting, a noticing.
Jude would stay in bed, wishing for death to come to him quicker.
Without Willem, it seemed his structure was torn, wholly ruined.