Mine a little
while
Eric Brewer /
Janne Niinimaa
R, fiction means
I made this up
Metallica wakes
him up. LarsÕ drums and the sound of the dog pawing at the door. The speakers
of the clock radio are shit, the machine itself is old enough to cause concern
if he has an early start; the guitar is distorted, itÕs annoying. ItÕs morning;
itÕs hot, whatever.
By the end of
the guitar solo heÕs awake, sickly hard already a second after feeling the soft
scratch of EricÕs morning stubble across the back of his neck.
ItÕs not nearly
late enough in the day to be waking up. It would be alright if he woke up slow
like Eric does, soft with sleep and damp with sweat, a smell on his skin thatÕs
a little bit night and beer and suntan lotion. Wake up wrapped in some dream,
acting out the best bits on the body next to him. His body shifting closer
under the sheets, EricÕs lips mouthing something across his neck, hot hands
smoothing over his skin. Wake up wanting. Wake up getting.
Not like him,
shoved from being dead to alive, his first morning breath a gasp, shock heÕs
still living.
He edges closer
to the side of the bed, the bathroom door locks; Eric wonÕt wake up properly
for ages anyway. Can be gone in ten minutes, less if he grabs his clothes and
goes. Done that before, walked out pulling a shirt over his head, doing up
buttons, paperboys and the corner storeowner not looking up long enough to see
him. He pushes gently at the grabbing hands, letting them slide off the finger
shaped bruises on his hips with regret.
Eric mumbles
into the sheets when his head slides down onto the bed from JanneÕs shoulder.
ÔComÕereÕ.
ÔShower, coffee,
go back to sleep.Õ Morning scenes, like they shouldnÕt be over this. HeÕll be out the door before Eric is
fully back in dreamland.
He stops though,
pets the skin of EricÕs back that is showing, kissing his shoulder says Ôgo
back to sleep, go back to sleep, IÕll get the paper, go back to sleep.Õ And he
knows to leave, but he lingers, finding clothes, dumping them down, uncertain
where to stand, turning slowly, naked in the room, watching from the bed to the
door.
It was Eric of
course, so everything had rules and doors you couldnÕt open and sub-clauses
about what they could talk about when they were drinking and when they were
sober, and boundaries that were crossed and re-drawn and the easiest thing in
the world would be to climb back into bed and go back to fucking sleep.
And the hardest
thing in the world, so close to everything, they can wake up together as long
as one of them makes it certain they are leaving as soon as the sleep is wiped
out of his eyes.
ÔPlay a round of
golf tomorrow?Õ
Janne turns back
and Eric isnÕt awake, not exactly, got the eye that isnÕt buried in the
mattress half open looking at him.
That isnÕt true
to precedent. What they are is drunk, or accidental, didnÕt really happen if
they donÕt talk about it.
ÔYeahÕ. Janne
says, Ôyeah have lunch after.Õ Because there is nothing else he can say.
Because through all the seasons somewhere else he always ends up back here,
because whatever geographic location here is, itÕs the same. EricÕs house,
EricÕs bed, under EricÕs arm, nothing and enough and something and everything
at the same time and EricÕs fallen asleep again as soon as he finishes
speaking.
ItÕs too hard to
give up what you never should have had in the first place. Watching Eric roll
over on his stomach, his shoulders shifting, tensing and relaxing and Janne
couldnÕt give this up the way he canÕt stop breathing, just cause he wanted it.
ItÕs any other
morning, half hard walking to the bathroom, EricÕs soap, his shampoo. Janne can
lean his hand against the wall in the shower where Eric probably does, the hot
steam covering him like a blanket, every finger print that Eric marked him
with, every slide of his tongue that he made him with, all in this. EricÕs the
fix for a shaking junkie, sleep to an insomniac, everything. This is new.
the genuine
apparition of your smile
(it was
through tears always)and silence moulds
such
strangeness as was mine a little while;
it is at moments
after I have dreamed e.e. cummings
