Fiction: Don't You Wish It Could Never End?

By Luc M.

 

We both arrived alone. By chance I ended up next to him. At first by chance. I lost balance and he pulled me up. He was enthusiastic about that, being the person who helps up people who fall. It's almost annoying, but a little endearing. He's wearing a hoodie halfway, you know, like just around the neck. I try to focus on not falling again as the circle closes in, quickly shifts and morphs in shape, elbows and shoulder checks all cacophonous to the sound of bass drum and cymbals rattling. 

 

I want to focus on myself, on the music, on being present, but once I notice him, my target’s been chosen. In a slower moment I watch him, mostly out of peripheral vision, his hand by his shoulder, like over his heart but farther, wrapping himself in. internalizing every word, looking reverent. He lives for this. He has thin fingers, round fingertips and nails as short as possible, bitten maybe. On his middle finger is a thick silver ring. His eyelashes are long, framing big dark eyes, which are currently hypnotized in wonderment. If I were to guess, he’s 21 on the dot. He doesn’t have many worries in the world.  This moment is everything to him. 

 

The circle opens back up. an amalgamation of human beings twisted and contorted into dripping sweat and built up aggression. There are a lot of people in this mass as I thread in and out, but even when I try to forget about it I only see him. It almost gets on my nerves when someone is so beautiful and they have no idea. Actually, to be more accurate, what aggravates me is when I personally think they’re beautiful and they don’t know it. It's the lack of gratitude, or something similar. so, with that in mind, I focus on him. I try not to make it obvious, but each push and strike is calculatedly more intense than on anyone else. harder, worse. Thankfully, I think he doesn’t notice. This is how it is, between men, how to touch someone else and know that they exist. and by your pain, that you do as well. As people start to leave, I don't exactly follow him, I just make sure I don't leave first. I make sure that we just happen to be walking out near each other, and we just happen to be walking in the same direction. The hoodie is back on, fully, with the hood up as well. He sees me and recognizes me. 

 

Great, right?

 

Yeah.

 

I think he noticed something just beneath the surface. that there’s still something pent up here, not yet released. 

 

Don't you wish it could never end?

 

What do you mean? 

 

Even though I know what he means. giving in to your basest impulses. just fucking hitting people. 

 

You know, feeling a part of something. becoming one thing. using all your energy for it and losing yourself to it. 

 

Picking people up when they fall?

 

He smiled. 

 

Look at this. Look how quick it is.

He rolled his sleeve up slightly. His forearm is spotted with bruises. I take hold of it pretending like I can't see and need to look closer. I pressed down. calloused palms on soft skin. He winces then relaxes. Inhale, exhale.

 

It doesn’t have to end. At least, not yet. 

 

No? 

           

There's a park a few blocks away. multiple fields, baseball, soccer. It's wide open but private, no one is on a baseball field in the middle of the night. This is the only thing I can think of anyway. I don't want to interrupt the flow of things. This needs to happen now or never. To my surprise he lets me lead him there. There are people around sure, but far enough away that they can’t really see us, not behind the fence, even though it’s only chainlink. 

 

Then it starts again, first with pushing, then punching, then a complete frenzy of just whaling at him. He does fight back, and makes a good effort, too, until he gives. That's the moment. When the limbs turn more limp and lips part, eyelids heavy. One quick motion, turned 180, holding wrists up behind his back, bending arms in a way that hurts to move.

 

Had enough?

 

No.

 

Don’t move.

 

This is the truth no one wants to admit. When we see beauty we want to crush it, ruin it, destroy and tear apart. That's why the sacrificial object is so important. I'm paraphrasing, but that’s the point. there’s a distinct hunger in me. an obvious lack. people can see it. he sees it. I remove my hold, he stays in place. I wonder if he always knew my ulterior motive. Although, actually, we were both being honest with each other the whole time, just not with ourselves. 

 

So now, things shift. my hands under his clothes. studying the bones that jut out. smooth hollowness between hips and collar. I suddenly remember a moment from my childhood. I was sitting outside a pool. My friend sitting behind me tracing my back. your shoulder blades stick out, he said. Now I return to the moment. I'm trying to say be quiet, be quiet. I can sense that people who were hanging around the venue are starting to leave now. But I think I'm almost done. 

 

Turning back around now, I notice one line of blood dripping from above his eye, which in turn, has a swell the size of a grape. this is what its all for, this image. completely spent, breathing heavy. This is something you can communicate without using words. good job, you were perfect. This is beauty, tarnished. not permanently, thankfully, you can reset and start again. I take my thumb to the subtle shadow underneath a high cheekbone. There's an invisible roughness to his skin. Regaining strength he grows impatient. We should be turning and leaving separate ways as soon as possible. but i need to capture the image in my mind. I have to keep it somehow. 

 

I’m not gay.

 

Keep telling yourself that.

 

And that’s it. That's goodbye.

 

 

 

 

 

Luc M. is a writer and musician in NYC. He's the founder of Moral Crema art collective.

IG: @dionysiac_