ii.

          You’ve come to know him better in the time that’s passed since the day your world came crashing down around your shoulders. Previously, he was just ‘Porthos’ to you; now, he’s ELIOTT, and by all measures, both objective and non, HE’S BEAUTIFUL. On some level, you’d always realised it, but it was a realisation that stayed mostly in your subconscious––––until now. 

          The Sleipnir’s docked in the port of some nameless little Earth colony, resupplying after a hellish few weeks, and for your part, you fully intend to enjoy your few hours of liberty before it’s time to round up the rest of your Navs and herd them back aboard the ship. You suppose the place you’ve docked ISN’T HALF BAD; it’s nothing like Earth, but you’ve always been fascinated by these worlds you’d only previously ever known in books. Here, the sky is not blue, but a vivid purplish-red. Three suns hang low across the horizon, partially obscured by clouds, and overhead, the strangest birds you’ve ever seen circle in the tepid air, squawking lazily before alighting in tall palm trees whose fronds come in every colour imaginable. Your boots have sunk into the pastel sand, and you wonder if you’re having a FEVER-DREAM, because this place looks every bit like something Dr. Seuss would have dreamed up. You stand there  a w e s t r u c k  for quite some time, before you hear a familiar laugh coming up behind you. IT’S HIM; he’s sun-kissed already ( you don’t know how he does it ), and he grabs your hand and drags you off the beach, laughing and saying something about a local pub that you’ve just GOT to try. You’ve always liked your whiskey and your gin and your scotch, but you like HIM even more, and when his fingers lace between yours like your hands were meant to be joined in precisely this way, you almost blurt it out again. But you check the impulse and instead romp up the beach after him, laughing and kicking up sand, and the way your heart feels SO LIGHT in your chest is a prospect you find equal parts thrilling and TERRIFYING.

iii.

          You’ve been inviting him back to your office more and more, now; you like to listen to him talk, like to watch him do anything, really––––and he seems to like your company, too. You share your scotch with him and he laughs at your silly little jokes, your best attempts at humour. You’re no longer ‘sir’ to him, except in jest; you’re not even KEELER any more:  you’re Sören, and you’ve never liked your name as much as you do when he’s the one saying it. 

          And perhaps unsurprisingly, it isn’t long before shy touches and sidewise glances become something FAR LESS INNOCENT. He sneaks up to your office one day and sits you on the desk, teasing your legs apart with his broad, gentle hands; he holds you close against him before kissing a slow, teasing line down, down, down––––down your slender torso, past your narrow waist, your powerful thighs. You tremble from head to toe, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, tugging shyly at his hair. This time when you beg, it’s because YOU WANT MORE, more of his soft, warm mouth wrapped around you, more of that  t h i n g  he does with his hands, that thing that makes you see stars behind your closed eyes. You come quickly, crying out in your mother tongue, stopping just short of a confession to him, an admission of the depth and breadth of what you’ve begun to feel for him. Because you know it for what it is, now, and although you’re TERRIFIED of the implication, for once in your life, you decide to throw caution to the wind.

iv. 

          Your twenty-fifth birthday comes and goes without fanfare. You’ve been hard at work for MONTHS ON END, now, and it’s beginning to take its toll on you. You’re looking more and more exhausted with each passing day, the circles under your eyes growing more pronounced––––if anyone cares enough to notice, that is; most of them DON’T. And then one day, you’re feeling PARTICULARLY down, like perhaps you’re getting sick in the bad way again, because every single fibre of your being is  a c h i n g  with a fatigue too dreadful to put into words. You drift from your desk to the little couch shoved away in the corner of your office and, shivering, curl up into the tiniest little ball that you can, closing your eyes and hoping for some semblance of sleep to grant you even an hour’s relief from this discomfort.

          And while sleep doesn’t come, HE DOES; it’s like he’s got a sixth sense about you. You can feel your lips quivering when he lets himself in and makes a beeline for your tiny form. He scoots you over gently, then tucks up next to you, stroking your hair, rubbing your back. He tells you stories, talks to you gently until you’ve stopped SHAKING WITH PAIN. You lose track of how long has passed––––you even urge him to leave, to go take care of himself, because he must be tired, too, but he WON’T; he insists on staying right here with you and on holding you just like this, your face pressed against the nape of his neck, his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you close.

          There’s a stinging in your eyes; your lips tremble, HEART POUNDING in your chest. You ache so badly from the desire to tell him, but you don’t, because this is the only good thing you have in your life, and you’d rather continue on with him not knowing, than tell him and scare him away. Perhaps that means he’ll NEVER know, but you’d rather bear that pain than the pain of loss; at least one of these you know you can handle.

v.

          You’ve always found him beautiful, but he’s absolutely BREATHTAKING like this, bathed in the early morning sunlight that comes drifting into your little hotel room through an open window, curtains dancing lazily in the warm springtime breeze. His hair is messy and tangled, eyes at half-mast, a soft, gentle smile tugging his lips up at the corners as he presses the tip of his nose against yours. The both of you lie where you’d fallen the night before, a mess of tangled limbs and tangled sheets, sore and spent in the best of ways and naked as the day you were born. Outside, there’s a LITTLE CHICKADEE twittering away in the treetops, and you can’t help but giggle at its call:  chicka-dee-dee-dee-dee, hey-sweetie, hey-sweetie. You lean in and whisper in his ear that it’s your favourite bird, ask him if he can hear it call out ‘hey-sweetie, hey-sweetie.’ He strokes your cheek and says that he can.

          And for awhile, the two of you lie there in perfect silence, wholly immersed in the moment and in EACH OTHER, his fingers tracing the contours of your cheekbone, of your jawline, tucking locks of your wavy hair behind your ear. You BREAK THE SILENCE FIRST; your voice is low and tremulous when you do. You tell him that YOU’RE GOING TO BREAK HIS HEART SOMEDAY, because you’ve always come with an expiry date, and he shouldn’t get any closer because he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you, and you don’t want to hurt him. He holds you even closer, then, cups your tearstained cheeks in his hands and kisses you fiercely; when he pulls back, his eyes are glassy, too. He tells you he ISN’T GOING ANYWHERE, that he’s known for a long time that you’ll break his heart, and HE ISN’T AFRAID; he wants to love you all the more while he still can. Because he does love you, and he wants you to know that, do you know it, Sören, do you believe me when I say it?

          Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers are digging into his arms so tightly that your nails have left half-crescent imprints there; you aren’t even aware of it. For a moment, TIME SEEMS TO STAND STILL. The breeze blows the curtains back gently, dances across your skin. Outside, the tree branches bend and wave, the sunrise painting the sky in a breathtaking palette of vibrant colour. It seems as if the whole world is waiting with bated breath, just like he is, to see how you’ll reply.

          I love you, you say, exhaling it on a soft breath, one you’ve been holding for SO LONG without even realising it until its familiar weight is gone from your chest. He pulls you in a close embrace, kisses you deeply, whispers your name like it’s a PRAYER. You count his heartbeats, each and every one, memorise the feel of his body pressed against yours, and in that moment you decide that if you can bring this man even one iota of the joy he’s brought you, then yours will have been A LIFE WORTH LIVING.