Harvesting Mangoes in Tahiti since 1899

It wasn’t yet noon. The pale sun shone sleepily through the rafters of the small attic room, the one that belonged to the artist. Pigeons cooed on the rooftop, their little feet tip-tapping a tuneless rhythm as somewhere a church bell chimed and horses whinnied in the street below. The scientist lay on the bed.

The bed, the scientist noted, wasn’t much bigger than the ugly cot he used at Doverhill. The artist, surely, was used to sharing the beds of others. The mattress was thin and it sagged in the middle, and the metal springs hung silent after chorusing their incessant creak, creak, creak. The scientist thumbed the white sheet, his eyes scanning every fibre. His back was turned to the artist, who had leapt of the bed triumphantly and was brewing a pot of coffee on the tiny stove. He hummed to himself as he arranged porcelain cups, offering to replace the coffee altogether with brandy, for today was such a marvelous day, indeed it was.

“You know,” the artist mused. “I don’t believe I have ever fucked someone like you before.”

He glanced over at the scientist, admiring the pale arches and shadows of his body. His freckled back, his hip bones that protruded slightly, just visible above the sheets. That glorious head of the darkest hair, now disheveled and shining in the sunlight. He'd meant what he'd said. The scientist intrigued him, despite the fact he'd just explored every inch of him.

It had been a morning straight from a book. The scientist had arrived early, his face set with purpose. The artist had accommodated him without hesitation, though he had murmured with surprise at how eagerly the other man had pushed him backwards against the kitchen table, their kisses racing to keep up with one another. He’d been so ripe, and it had been so easy, after so many weeks of waiting and missed suppers and unopened letters and ignored looks across the street. When the artist had entered him he’d bitten down into the pillow and moaned deliriously. Their bodies became one, a tangle of sweat and wordless panting and the ravenous slap of skin on skin. 

The scientist rolled onto his back, his thick brow furrowed as he studied the ceiling. He ran his tongue over his top lip and the artist smiled, marvelling at how this awful city still managed to give him the most sumptuous gifts.

“I’ve…” the scientist began. “…never fucked anyone before.” His words were said carefully, deliberately, a kingdom away from his usual babble.

The artist paused, his hand hovering above the coffee pot, suspended in time. He looked back at the other man, a grin finding its way onto his face.

“Well, then this calls for champagne, not mere brandy! A glorious day!”

The scientist didn’t smile, didn’t move at all. He looked at the artist with a look of pure hurt that made the smaller man’s stomach twist.

“Do not laugh at me.”

He rolled over again, pulling the sheets up to his shoulders. He was completely still. The artist went to his side.

He ran his hand along the horizon of the scientist, watched how his fingers dipped and rose with his body. He lay next to him, wrapping his arms around the rigid body and breathing in his peppermint scent, his lips on his pulse as he kissed his neck.  

“Mon cheri…I would never dare to laugh.”

The scientist simpered, turning his head to meet the artist’s lips. The kiss was deep, the neediness replaced with something else the scientist couldn’t place. The artist cupped his cheek, his eyes soft.

“Did I hurt you? When I…” he trailed off, his usual smirk returning as his hand travelled down the scientist’s body, causing him to shiver.

The scientist blushed crimson and the artist couldn’t help but chuckle, his eyebrow raised.

“Hurt isn’t the right word, I do not think. I have been excavated!” the scientist declared very seriously, and the artist laughed so hard and so suddenly he almost fell off the bed.

The scientist did not laugh, but he sat up slightly, leaning on one elbow. He took a deep breath, as if preparing to give a speech. The artist looked at him expectantly.

“I want…” said the scientist. “…I would like to do that again.”