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“The dead appear to us in dreams, said Julian, because that’s the only way they can make us see them; what we see is only a projection, beamed from a great distance, light shining at us from a dead star . . .”
Damn you, damn you, you prick, you monster, you disgusting-
Henry rarely dreamt. His sleep was heavy; brain like an old oil lamp, burning too hot until the fuel dissipated into a warm, lightless puddle. But here he was, Rome again, the plush bed he laid those December days with Bunny.
He recognised this evening - remembered the same muddy sky through the window and the horrid rattle of the pipes. The mild glow of the living space peeked through a slithered gap in the doorway, exposing the indistinct shape of a porcelain cup. That day’s cappuccino, unfortunately, was ordered with Bunny’s evening dinner.
Now, a slash of gold hit Bunny’s back as he perched at the end of the bed, cushioned by his feet, cream cotton socks tucked underneath in the way a child sits expectantly in front of the television: Top of the pops at seven - Henry Winter - has soared to number one.
To Henry’s surprise, Bunny remained strangely quiet; dismissive or unaware of the attention, he wasn’t sure. The tender skin at Bun’s temple was stripped and sore, as though someone had taken a spoon, raised it high, and dropped it again with a crack. A freckled, broken layer of burnt sugar.
Henry squinted to see this quiet delicacy, tilting his head to catch the blond strand that had tacked itself to the red dribble that resided there - raspberry coulis at the Brasserie - and he bit the urge to reach over and touch it. Would the blood crumble and melt into his thumb like dried, waxy pigment? He thought about pressing it to his lips – then blinked, opening his mouth.
“Bunny,” he said, his own voice foreign to his ears, it was low as if he had awoken just moments prior.
Bunny’s head snapped up – a frown, a recovery.
“I don’t know why it’s Italy, old man, I hated this room and you’re making me feel sick,” he mumbled, eyes drifting again. His voice carried the same garrulous sound, but smaller, flatter, now. Henry ignored the twinge in his chest and hummed, opting to watch the way fingernails cuffed with dirt pulled at a loose thread. Bunny’s throat bobbed with a swallow.
The peculiar silence stretched and folded into itself until Henry sighed; why on earth would a dream be so…distracted? He deemed the irony almost funny - to beg for silence all that time, just for Bunny to offer it in a dream. He was even the one to break it first.
“…Was it long?”
This earned a choked laugh, “Felt like forever,” he said,
“I’m sorry,”
“No, you’re not.”
“You were scared,” Henry says, a doctor’s tone, Bunny thinks.
“I was hunted.”
Henry’s expression remained impassive if not for the tightness of his jaw; in truth, he couldn’t quite smear the look of terror that Bunny held that day, eyes wide like an animal hearing the crack of a starting shot.
Fittingly, he had stalked forward, achingly slow, trowel digging into his palm like the coarse handle of a gun while Bunny bleated his name once, twice, maybe six times within the minute. It rattled Francis terribly, god, he’s actually gonna die, he whined to no one in particular.
Like a theatre audience, distant and devoid of influence at the scene presented, the rest of them breathed. Kicked a weed. Hands in pockets. Itched a scratch.
Bunny’s arms had reached out to Henry, desperate to push – like a cornered dog snapping forward. The material of Henry’s overcoat shook between white knuckles, so close he swallowed the smell of the last Lucky Strike, the freckle under his eye; the shy chip in his tooth while he spoke. Henry hadn’t said much, really, all except ‘Stop it,’, ‘Bunny, you’re embarrassing yourself’, and a string of curses when Bunny whimpered.
The last few moments, though unspoken, had tasted particularly ugly. Bunny’s sobering instinct, to Henry’s distant horror: was to hold. He had held Henry in a last attempt of pleading; a pity, however, as his hands lacked the same conviction.
It was easy in the end, that final push, and Henry sported the meek bruise on his wrist three days later. The dusty colours were reminiscent of the half empty tin of watercolours that used to sit on the desk of their first-year accomodation.
Henry drew nearer now, the bed creaking, movements measured, cautious, soft pyjamas and bedhead. As if any of this attempt at gentleness held any weight, Bunny was dead, after all.
“Why are you here, Bun?”
“Are the ferns grown out yet, old chap?” Bunny snapped, bitterly.
“Bunny come here,”
A beat.
A sigh. “Bunny, come here,” Nothing.
“Bunny.”
The blond unfolded his legs. A clumsy crawl closer, the familiarity almost enough to make his wobbly limbs work auto-pilot. Almost.
“I wish you were fucking dead,” he suddenly spat, shifting his weight, “I wish you died in that crash, you killer. You killed me, me,”.
Both ignored how his arms held a certain tremor while he lowered himself, nibbling the skin of his lip. The matted tufts of blond sank into the duvet that lay flat at Henry’s lap, cheek pressed into cornflower blue linen.
“I won’t forgive you.”
“I know that,”
“I hope those ugly roses die with you, too.”
“Mm.” Henry rested a palm to the curve of his back at that, fingertips curling halfway into a claw. It tickled. The roses, as it happened, were one of the few things keeping him grounded. “Your funeral was a disaster,” Henry began, tone faintly clipped, “You’re rotting in a hole with no dignity. So frankly, I like to think my roses are far kinder than anything anyone else has yet to do for you.”
A flinch. Kind, kind! Bunny could have laughed. Kindness was never a factor for them. Conversation tasted acidic at every attempt, the sting of a slap had engraved itself so deep into Bunny’s cheek, if he thought hard enough, the aftershock of tingles were almost pleasant; like the first sip of carbonation to make your eyes water. This was not kind.
Sniffing, Bunny closed his eyes. It was a silly stab at nonchalance, “Yippee,” he said, albeit croaky, and the hand at his back began to move again; gentle circles, up and down, a deliberate brush at the nape of the neck. Cruelly, perhaps, Henry wondered if he knew that he landed paralysed, angled like an old doll without stuffing at the base, clean, thank god. The way Bunny stilled was answer enough.
In a dreamy sort of unrestrain, Henry began to skim at the spot again; a tender touch, at first, as if to soothe a skittish alleycat prone to its ears flattening. Back and forth…Back and forth, acclimatise, settle, there there, how brave of you, Bun.
Bunny half expected to hear a quiet hushing alongside the sensation, similar to how Henry had nursed the shoeboxed bird last Spring, great hands cupping the torn and inky creature with a gentleness only ever reserved for moments few and far between. The bird had timid eyes the size of raisins, and lay studying Henry’s own with the obliviousness of chocolate buttons. It was a funny little thing, nuzzling against his fingers with the fluff of its cheeks, bursting out a shrill tchup! that startled Bunny with a laugh. “I doubt it understands you, no, no, it’s probably terrified of those big, goofy hands of yours, Henry.”
“...It might understand.” Henry muttered, and skimmed its beak; a trickle of a smile reached his eyes that Bunny hadn’t seen before.
But here, the room remained silent, dim and as hollow as a grave. Henry’s thumb paused over Bunny’s pulse again, watching the way skin prickled under the sudden hesitancy, his foot twitched against the bed. Henry, biting his lip, considered the weight of him, as easy as one would glance at the weather report; partly interested, partly unsurprised.
He knew Bunny’s body, he knew it well. He knew how he jutted his chin up in a pretence of aloofness when he wanted Henry to work for it, how his wisdom teeth peeked through swollen gums on the left side of his cheek. How his stomach crumbled into itself in a laugh, loud enough to punch your eardrums, when Henry scratched the underside of his feet.
Henry also knew he wanted to hold him flush; to shh, Bunny, you’re alright, and trail his lips to Bunny’s scruff; all mouth and teeth and tongue. A savage at the muscle; how a lion’s jaws curl around both prey and cub. He wanted to say I’m sorry, Bun, I am.
He pressed down. The point of his nail bit into the skin with slow deliberation, a half-moon etching into a lonely slit. It raised a blushy, prudent red under a little beauty-spot. The strange vibrations of Bunny’s throat tingled against his hand while the other petted his reddened hair, carding through the dirty mop with gentle ease. He wondered if in death, whether Bunny’s shirt was ever scrubbed, or did the stains simply be? Oh, Bunny. Do you still half-eat your twinkies and drop the wrappers at ‘heaven’s’ door? Is it cold here? are you still afraid of the sea, and the heights, and the teeth of the animals trapped at the history museum? Do you see your father laugh, your baby nephews cry, and do you hear your brothers’ tipsy prayers sung under the white paint of your childhood roof?
The thumb pressed deeper. He expected Bunny’s usual flighty jab, hoping for a hiss to stop, Henry, you’re being cruel, you bastard, you know I broke my neck, to take his hand in his, yank the flesh and bite like a dog.
Disappointingly, Bunny didn’t budge.
Henry’s fingers cut down into his jaw with the precision of a pen knife, another dirty attempt, Come on, Bunny, turn around and taste the iron, crush my windpipe between your palms - you want to kill me, you said as much yourself. You want to mop the floor with my spit, so here you go. I’m all yours.
The bed, the body, the hand remained loyal to their positions until Henry drew back, softening. He felt sick and near dazed.
“You’re scared,” Henry said finally, voice fit for a shoe-box.
Bunny lay still against Henry’s thighs until his shoulders began to shake.
It was five thirty-two when Henry had awoken in the dark, a feverish urgency taking hold of his limbs, clumsy to find the lightswitch and the duvet curled up to his side. His lashes were wet and spidery and his jaw ached to move with the sickly sweet taste of sleep. The light. The light, my glasses, the roses, he thought, the rose bush needs pruning.
Richard had found him the next morning on his knees, petals buried in his hands and the ferns shadowing the corner of the house. “The canes bleed if they're pruned this late, but better late than ever, as they say.” Henry mused, snipping the ends with a faraway concentration. He tilted his head, brows pinched, “Does it need opening up more, do you think? Oh, it doesn’t matter.” It matters, it matters.
“Oh, good God, Henry. Good, God.”