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James
I toss.
I turn.
I toss.
Turn.
Eyes burning, back aching, sleep?
Not here.
Never here.
Never after…
Robbie beside me.
Breathing quietly.
Snoring endearingly.
I need to get out of here.
Now.
A minute, an hour ago.
My throat is tight.
Tight with fear, no.
Terror.
This is terror, a chasm within.
I know the chasm well.
Too well.
Know every gouge and rock.
I get up.
The chasm would eat me up.
Baby steps, James, small and soft and noiseless.
At the bottom of the chasm lies a body.
No Napoleon of crime, just a small, lanky boy with hair that’s made of gold.
His face is calm and sweet; his smile so genuine and…
Happy.
Yes.
There’s light.
Warm light, the humming of the fridge.
Soft scent of dinner, still lingering.
Pasta, cheese, red wine and candles.
Home.
Love.
Robbie.
Monty is my silent companion, watching me attentively.
Watches me cut carrots, onions, garlic, celeriac.
Makes a face at each.
There’s a sunbeam, warming the chasm’s rocks and gouges.
Robbie
He’s done it again.
A lasagna in the fridge, all done and covered with tinfoil.
Robbie gets the milk and closes the fridge door with a heavy sigh.
James is still upstairs, sleeping like a log.
No use to wake him now, it is still early in the morning, no case as of yet to throw them into the world.
Robbie should really connect the dots, being a copper and all, but there is something missing.
The dates are almost at random, but sometimes some rather elaborate meal appears out of nowhere.
Two weeks ago it had been an iced cake.
Robbie is worried.
Not because food appears out of thin air, of course.
It’s James.
Has always been him, eh?
It’s the emptiness in the eyes, the four mugs of coffee and the refusal of breakfast; it’s his trembling hands and sore eyes.
Robbie has tried.
But asking James Hathaway anything he is not comfortable to reveal is pointless.
Instead, he brings him coffee. Black, no sugar, ‚can’t stomach it, love‘.
But not until later.
Knowing James’s Lasagna recipe quite well he must have been down here for hours.
The ashtray on the window sill tells him four cigarettes.
Four hours, maybe three.
„Oh, pet, what is it with you?“ He asks the ashtray.
Monty demands his breakfast.
-*-
James never wakes by himself.
Once, Robbie has let him sleep, just to… let him have his rest, basically.
After sixteen hours of hardly stirring, Robbie had woken him.
„Told you, I don’t wake by myself“
So, at half-nine he is in his bedroom, the largest cup of coffee in his hands that their home offers.
„James?“
„`m up.“
He isn’t.
A pale face rises from behind the quilt and tired (so, so tired) hazy eyes meet Robbie’s.
„Lasagna?“
A smile tugs at James’s lips but it doesn't reach his eyes.
„You love it.“
„I do, but…“
„Coffee?“
Robbie gives in. He always does.
Instead, he hands the mug over and kisses James.
Softly, he is kissed back.
„Thank you.“
James
I have to tell him, I know.
There’s no point in hiding.
There’s no point in causing pain.
Causing Robbie pain, of all people.
I know him.
He would listen.
Listen to me and rest his kind cornflower-eyes upon me,
Watch over me with his loving gaze.
He wouldn’t understand, or would he?
But he’d carry it with me.
It’s not that I want to hide it from him.
Even I am smart enough to know that this chasm is not the ninth circle of hell.
How would I describe it?
How could I find a word for it?
My restless hands, my tremor, this storm, the rushing, there are no words, neither English, Latin, Greek or Ugarit.
I could try and learn another language, dead or alive, and maybe find a word.
We are no good at talking.
It’s like a trope come true.
Two blokes who fuck each other but can’t even talk about it later.
Robbie loves lasagna.
And I need to stir the béchamel.
-*-
Waking up is awful.
Even if it is Robbie who wakes me.
Dreams are not exactly safe havens, have never been, but after one of those nights, they rarely even dare to come around.
What if I just told him?
No gory details, just…
Just about the chasm.
What if I lose him?
Over a cup of coffee, looking at him.
Looking at his eyes, his heart breaking?
Am I losing him?
There is this crack in his eyes, hairline crack, all mendable.
But if it widens?
Am I losing him?
Robbie
James is silent.
He always is after one of his cooking fits; silent, pale and far away.
Almost too much to look at.
But Robbie can’t just ask, can he?
„You alright, pet?“
A slow nod.
„I worry.“
A sigh, from deep within, but hollow.
„Don’t.“
Like catching smoke.
Like being in love, like loving smoke that evades.
Is he losing James?
-*-
A fortnight later, James seems to have adjusted somewhat.
He sleeps badly, but that is quite his default, Robbie knows.
But smiles reach his eyes, at least some times.
There’s no lasagna, no iced cake, no chicken pie, nothing.
And James eats, thank goodness.
-*-
He didn’t mean to pry about James.
Really didn’t.
James doesn’t even cry, although his eyes seem so weary.
He just sighs and avoids Robbie’s gaze while whisking up buttercream.
„Love…“
Nothing, bar the sound of the whisk, metal chucking against the stainless steel of the bowl.
„James.“
Robbie doesn’t want to sound like he is pulling rank (he never has and doesn’t want to start now), but even he himself is aware of the firmness in his voice.
„Did I wake you?“
His voice is low, quiet and, Robbies heart aches and tears, sad.
„No, not at all“, he walks around the breakfast bar and hugs James from behind.
Feels the body of his beautiful man stiffen.
It’s the answer Robbie feared, isn’t it?
„I’ll let you go, if that is what’s keeping you up at night. Can’t bear you being unhappy.“
James’s shoulders drop and he suddenly seems about a foot smaller.
„No“, a low, pained whisper, „no, please. Don’t… don’t leave me.“
Robbie feels his eyes burning.
No talking still, but he hugs James tighter and feels his breath steadying eventually.
„Want me to help you? Won’t interfere, promised, but…“
There is James’s hand, gently caressing Robbies fingers.
„I would, but…“
He can’t, Robbie realises.
He can’t.
-*-
The cake looks marvellous.
Buttercream with a hint of brandy, almonds and a buttery vanilla.
Soft sponge, cocoa and cardamom.
Or so James told him.
But Robbie just can’t eat it.
James has left a note by the cake stand in the fridge.
Need to sort something out.
I love you.
At least.
At least his six feet, two inches cloud of smoke still loves him.
Or so he writes.
Robbie knows that this is pathetic, that he is losing it now, sulking like a teenage girl over…
-over what, exactly?
He closes the fridge door, without taking the purposefully draped piece of cake out.
Instead, he unscrews the bottle of Pinot Noir they had opened yesterday.
-*-
James is exhausted.
His mouth seems too tired to even try an amused twitch.
And Robbie feels the lump in his throat.
He gets up, kisses James gently on the cheek and goes to bed.
James
How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? for ever?
How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?
How long?
I know.
Robbie sees my cracks.
Might even see the chasm.
But I see his as well.
The hairline cracks he hides when sipping on his coffee, when planting violas in our backyard.
Autumn used to be my favourite time of the year, even with its bleak November mornings.
Now?
-Now I see that even the violas hide their face from me.
How long shall I take counsel in my soul,
Having sorrow in my heart daily?
How long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?
There have been times, long gone, where I had had no need for this kind of exercise.
When Robbie held me, not asking, never doubting.
Doubts are now his default, I can see it.
Sorrow as well.
So I sit here.
Writing lines of psalms, over and over again.
In broad daylight, in my office.
How long shall I…
Ād-ānāh ‚‘āšyit ’ezot…
It is not the limping rhythm some quacks have named Qinah, but it drags along.
-This rhythm-thing is, after all, just a desperate attempt of urging words into something nobody has understood in centuries.
Sure, it flows from your lips a certain way, makes you feel dry, sorrowful and unable to move on, but in grief, in desperation, there is no metre.
Consider and hear me,
O LORD my God:
Lighten mine eyes,
lest I sleep the sleep of death;
Sleep.
Even sleep of the death, I’d take it.
My eyes are wide awake and trembling with lightning.
I don’t think anyone can hear me.
If it only were doubts, rather than facts, I might still have hope.
Robbie doesn’t sleep in our bed anymore.
And I don’t, either.
If anything is powerful enough to send me to sleep, I take it, wherever it catches me.
My back is hurting.
I order another orthopaedic mattress for our spare bedroom.
Lest mine enemy say,
I have prevailed against him;
And those that trouble me rejoice
when I am moved.
The enemy?
Myself, most likely.
The subconscious, what lies beneath.
We haven’t had sex in weeks.
It doesn’t even need sex anymore to make my hands tremble, to crack open that chasm that is my heart.
The enemy has won.
Robbie leaves.
I don’t think he will return.
Robbie
He turns around for one last glance.
‚So, this is it. I have failed him. Failed myself.‘
If you go, I go.
Long ago, ages, aeons ago, Robbie muses.
James, his James is long gone, it seems.
Lost in some kind of misery no one can even grasp.
Robbie thinks he might see something, something in that gorge that James has risen from his heart.
The pattern, faintly visible through rocks and cracks.
Red velvet, ivories, steel cold eyes and agony.
Mortmaigne, even from beyond the grave he manages to destroy those he broke a long time ago.
The pattern, it clears.
James gets worse.
Every time they sleep together, the gorge cracks open a little more.
Every time they part, the gorge gets more comfortable in James’s heart.
The cooking fits have stopped, about two months ago.
After a Beef Wellington that almost has burned their home down.
James had fallen asleep, no, lost consciousness before he could finish the dish.
And now?
Bible verses.
Desperate cries for help.
A help Robbie wanted to provide.
Still wants.
He tells James that he loves him.
It is true, still, but just so hard to hear at the bottom of the gorge.
James looks up, sees Robbie, sees the bags.
And then…
James
I cry?
I am crying.
Sobbing, pleading.
I tried, Robbie, I really tried.
He tells me that he loves me, still.
Could never not love you, pet.
I don’t deserve him, do I?
But this is…
Too much, I know. Love by no means beareth all things.
Can love bear a kiss goodbye?
Can love bear me fighting back against this chasm?
Can love, can tears fill it up, hide this boy with the happy smile and soft hair?
I might never be whole, happy, sound, safe again.
Can love bear that I am not ready to let him go?
There are arms to hold me.
Arms that bear me.
Arms that keep my head above the water slowly filling up each crack.
I thought you’d never come back.
Between sobs and urges to just leave, I talk.
Of everything.
Of nothing.
Of the little boy down, down below the masses of water.
Of the chasm that now is a lake, cornflower-blue and quiet, Robbie-Lewis’s-eyes-blue and beautiful.
We try.
We fall.
We get back up.
We love.
We fight.
We weep in each other’s arms until our eyes are puffy and our vioces thick with tears.
And then…
We make love.
We fail.
We go downstairs.
Robbie hands me the whisk and smiles at me.
It will take forever, but it will be worth it.
But I have trusted in thy mercy;
My heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.