Chapter Three.

Sam stared at the bottom of the toilet bowl.

Wispy traces of bile swirled, brown, orange, and gray. He stared at them.

“That all of it?”

Something rough, cool, and wet scrubbed quick over his mouth and chin, and then his cheeks. A hand at the back of his collar tugged and he went with it.

“Come on.”

The knot in Sam’s belly twisted and he waited for the telling heave but none came. A pair of arms, bare and warm, slipped beneath his own.

“Come on, I said.”

Vision swam and then he was on his feet. Sam slapped one hand down over the vanity for balance. It felt cool and hard under his palm.

“Here--”

A cup appeared at his lips and Sam opened. The water was sweet on his tongue, and he spit it out.

“That’s it.”

He got the idea and opened his mouth again. He swished, spit.

“There you go.”

Sam finally noticed the mirror before him. In it, a brown head bent over his own, face tight and grim. He saw next himself that he was white and shining under a rough, unkempt beard. His eyes were black so he looked away.

“Now drink.”

The inside of his mouth was so dry it sucked up the water, and Sam felt only a small trickle down his throat. He swallowed again and again until he sucked air, gasping like a fish.

“Whoa, hang on, hang on now.”

A dull rush of water reached his ears and he stared at a brown arm, a pale plastic cup. They rose toward him.

“Drink.”

Back in the bedroom, Hank, wordless and frowning, pulled the shirt up over Sam’s head. It seemed weighted to Sam and then he saw how Hank handled it. He looked over and saw that the windows were black. He thought he saw a flash of something.

“Hang on.”

Sam waited, shivering with his arms held out at his sides, and watched Hank disappear into the bathroom. Water ran again, louder than before, harder, and stopped. Hank came back and the shirt was gone.

“Here.” The cool rough cloth returned and Hank wiped Sam’s chest and neck and under his pits. He dropped the cloth and asked, “You steady? You good?”

Sam moved his head slowly up and down and Hank helped him to bed.

His belly still hurt so Sam curled tight on his side. A shudder racked him and he glanced at the window again. It was black like the world outside had gone away, like Hank’s little cottage hurled quick and alone through an abyss. He thought he saw a flash of something again and closed his eyes against it.

Reality turned murky and he found himself on a street corner, alone. The pavement shone white but the sky above was black like the abyss outside Hank’s cottage. Sam looked around and saw someone staring at him, standing far across the street at the opposite corner. The person moved away so Sam followed.

When he opened his eyes again the black in the window had eased to a dim gray haze. Sam realized the sheets were damp around his body and quickly clapped a hand down over his groin. It was only sweat.

Feeling weak, he pushed himself up to sit. The bedroom was empty, the floorboards cold under his heels. A sick chill shook him and he crossed his arms tight, shuffling stiffly into the bathroom.

He peeled damp underwear down his legs and stepped into the shower, where he stood for some length of time with his head bent. Jets of water soaked his hair and pounded his shoulders, and Sam cleaned himself with slow, mechanical movements. Every sound echoed in his mind, his thoughts came as urges, not words, and his body ached like it might with flu or fever.

Sam dried himself with a damp towel and inspected his reflection in the mirror. He avoided his black gaze and instead inspected the short growth of beard on his cheeks and chin. It was a mess. He found an electric shaver beneath the sink.

In the bedroom Sam found clean clothes inside the bureau. They were Hank’s and they smelled like him; like coffee, pinewood. He found a heavy sweatshirt and pulled that on too. The material was soft and warmed quickly to his body. The notion of returning to bed was tempting but he remembered the dampness of the sheets and turned from them.

The hall and kitchen were cool, the hearth in the den dark and cold. Hank sat alone at the table, bent over a newspaper with a mug of coffee steaming at his elbow. He turned a page and, without looking up, said, “Morning.”

Sam felt contrite like a small boy. He pulled a chair out for himself and almost sat but before he could, Hank spoke.

“There’s coffee.”

Sam left the chair and retrieved a mug from the cupboard. He poured it black. On his way back to the table he glimpsed a mess of pillows and blankets on the couch. He’d put Hank there.

He began, “I could have--” and stopped when Hank sent him a tightlipped glance.

Sam shut his mouth and dropped his gaze. He sat at the table and cupped both hands around the mug. He recalled lying on a couch with a man he did not know, but the memory of scattered lines on a table was clearer and made his heart thump-thump fast in his chest.

A moment later Hank’s chair scraped back. He folded the paper haphazardly and left it, snatching his coffee by its rim and bringing it to the sink. He drained the rest and rinsed the mug, then set it to dry on the rack.

“Can you eat?” he asked, not turning around.

Sam’s belly felt sore still, but offered a feeble little burp. “Maybe,” Sam said. His voice was hoarse. He coughed into his arm. “Toast?” Something light, he thought.

Silent, Hank pulled bread from the pantry and stood with his back to Sam, knuckles pressed to the counter, watching the toaster like it could be intimidated into working faster.

Sam felt dull inside but not dead like before. He stared at a spot on the table, rubbing the smooth skin of his jaw. His thoughts came a little clearer now, and just as he was thinking he was almost himself again a plate dropped before him with a clatter. He jumped in his chair.

“Eat.”

The toast was burnt on one side and soft in the middle. Butter greased his fingers and Sam ate slowly. The food was bland on his tongue, more texture than taste. His mind wandered.

He remembered things in jerks, like being so angry and wanting to hurt Hank with his own hands. He remembered that had failed, and then using his words. He did not know precisely what he’d said but recalled the brittle, snide feeling that had filled him after saying it and also Hank’s terrible expression in response. He’d grinned wide like a shark and said, “This again,” and Sam felt suddenly low, like he should find the dirtiest gutter around and lie in it. His face burned. What was wrong with him?

While Sam ate, Hank stared and stared and said nothing. Whenever Sam gave signs of stopping he would tap the table loudly with one finger until eating resumed, and when the toast was gone rose, removing the plate and rinsing it in the sink. Sam had not touched his coffee so Hank brought him water. Sam drank it all and when the cup was empty Hank took that as well.

“So I didn’t sleep so good last night,” he said at last, as if they’d conversed all morning.

The acts of chewing, swallowing, and digesting exhausted Sam. He planted both elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. He said, “I’m sorry,” and thought, there were many of those to come, if he were lucky.

Seconds ticked by. Hank stood over the sink and dried Sam’s plate with a dishrag. “Was thinking.”

Still holding his head, Sam looked at him. He stared at Hank’s strong back and his arms and the way his muscles moved beneath the white cotton T-shirt he wore. There had been two guys, Sam remembered, at once. It told him a lot about the state he’d been in. He was a sneak, he thought with a sinking heart, a fake, and good at it. He fooled himself.

Hank turned the faucet off. He put the dry dishes away and closed the cupboards and finally, finally, faced Sam. He braced his hands over the counter behind him and said, “You hide.”

Sam stared. “What?”

Hank looked down for a moment, at his bare brown toes over cream tile, and looked up again. “I said, you hide, Sam.”

Sam turned those words over in his head. They were not untrue. “Okay,” he said.

Hank came close, resumed his seat, and leaned over his forearms on the table. His dark gaze was intense but Sam did not look away.

“You’ll be okay,” Hank began. “Everything will be fine and then something like this happens.”

Sam looked away.

Hank pointed his finger at nothing in particular. “Do you remember,” he said, “when we first got together?”

Of course Sam remembered, but it was such a general sort of question that he only shrugged.

“I had my place in the city,” Hank went on. “Near the office.”

Sam sketched an invisible figure over the tabletop with his index finger. “I remember,” he admitted quietly.

“I’d see you,” Hank said, “and we’d have a good time. Wouldn’t do shit but it was good anyway. You remember?”

A thick lump formed in Sam’s throat. He said, “Yes.”

“Then you’d go and we wouldn’t talk for days. First couple times I didn’t think anything, but it happened more than that.” He squinted at Sam. “You know what I’m talking about?”

Sam covered his eyes with his hands. He said again, “Yes.”

Hank must have leaned in because Sam felt the warmth of breath at his cheek.

“You’d show up real late at night.”

Sam said nothing.

“Pretty much hammered but walking straight--well. Straight enough. Hot for it.”

Sam remembered thinking even then how that was not really like him, how that was not who he really was. Maybe sometimes, when he was alone, yes, but not in front of people, and especially not in front of people like Hank. Not since he’d gotten back on his feet. It was just too--humiliating.

Sam had carefully and meticulously organized his life into a number of separate, manageable pieces, pieces that never met or brushed even closely together. For example there was school, where he played the studious pupil and worked to earn the paper that would eventually garner him a decent paycheck. Money meant autonomy, which meant really that he was safe.

Even his social life at the time had been a network of selected acquaintances, all of whom had their uses. Sam read people, read them well, and so knew how to use them.

There was his job of course and then finally his secret self which due to time constraints appeared only once every couple of weeks, or every couple of months. At those times he would binge drink alone in his apartment or fuck strangers. Hank had begun in this space. He was interesting and had a nice body, and more often than not let Sam have control of their encounters. It was not long however before the one initial encounter had turned to two, then three, and after a short period of time Hank graduated to what Sam thought of as the regular parts of his life, the ones regular people were allowed to see.

It was then that Sam’s control began to slip. His secret self would appear at Hank’s door, ass still sore from his latest unnamed hook-up. He wondered again what was wrong with Hank that he’d suffered that behavior. They’d still been new, with only a few good times behind them. The foundation had not set.

“Maybe it was different then,” Hank went on. “We were still getting used to each other.”

Sam’s palms grew damp where they were pressed to his eyes. He wiped them over the jeans he wore and rubbed the wet from his face with the collar of Hank’s sweatshirt. He stared numbly at the fabric as if he’d gotten something in his eye and now it had to be there, where was it, a speck, a piece of dirt, something.

If Hank noticed something was wrong he made no sign. “But now--today--Sam, you disrespect me with this. I can’t figure out if you’re trying to get a rise out of me or you’re playing the coward--”

Sam finally gave something like protest. “Coward--!”

Hank spread his hands over the table in exasperation. “What do you want? Is this your way of telling me to fuck off? Is this how you end it with people? I’m over here--I’m thinking we have something, Sam; a future, I don’t know, and you’re playing games--”

“I’m not,” Sam said, desperate. His voice sounded thick to his ears and he felt like something gruesome and black had stitched itself to his insides. He felt like over the years he’d fed it without knowing and imagined that now it was a live thing, wet and pulsing in his chest and he thought wildly, here it is, it’s over, I’m done.

“What do you want from me?” Hank asked. He stared incredulously at Sam with his dark, searching eyes, and Sam tried to think what did he want? It was the kind of question that had a million answers and he could only think of one.

“Just--You,” he said. Sam swiped his wrist over his eyes and did not care if Hank saw. “Please. I’m sorry.”

“It’s easy to say that,” Hank snapped. “Isn’t it? You’re sorry--”

“I am!” Sam’s chair skidded back but Hank rose too, standing quick like Sam had made a move.

Hank sneered at him. He said, “Me. You want me? You know, I’m not surprised. I must seem like a real pushover to you, Sammy, a real find. What was it you said, a dog? A big stupid dog?”

Sam remembered that too. He said, “You’re not. I didn’t mean that--”

“So what about next time? This may come as a shock but cleaning puke off your face at three in the morning isn’t really my idea of a good time.”

This really was it, Sam thought, and marveled at it. He felt ill again, like the gruesome thing inside was upset. “I’ll get help,” he said. “I’ll get--I’ll get--”

“Counseling?”

Hank spat the word in such a way that it gave Sam pause.

“Three years,” Hank said, holding index finger with thumb, “I’ve known you three years, and only now do I find out you’ve been in therapy for the better part of one of them.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“I found your planner. Met Jen. Nice lady. You should give her a call, by the way. Let her know you’re still kicking.”

Jen. Sam had a moment to feel bad about that before he realized the lengths Hank had gone to find him. Found a way inside his apartment. Found his planner. Met Jen. He forgot how terrible he’d felt only a moment before and went still.

What had Hank done then? Called around? Somehow found the bar--Paul’s old bar. He’d taken Sam home then and done all of this, helped him, cleaned him, put him to bed.

He wiped his eyes again and stared at Hank. “You made me toast,” he said.

“Oh, Jesus.” Hank grabbed the front of the sweatshirt Sam wore in both hands and just held, finally giving him a small shake. He stared at Sam like he was trying to see inside, and finally pulled him close. He held Sam tight and said, raggedly, “This is what I’m talking about. Do you see--? Don’t hide, Sam. I can’t do this.”

Sam pushed his face into Hank’s neck. He said, “I won’t,” with sun-brown flesh hot against his lips. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I won’t hide. I’m sorry--” Whiskers scratched his cheek and chin and between kisses he said those things again, over and over.

Sam’s body still ached but Hank’s big hands eased him, and Sam could feel him hard between them, under clothes. He slid his palms beneath Hank’s shirt and felt hot smooth skin.

In the bedroom, he pulled the big blanket over the sweat-damp sheets he’d left. He’d not totally recovered, and though Sam hungered for it his body was not quite there. Hank sported a bulge but pushed Sam’s hands away.

He said, “I’m okay,” and, still dressed, joined him in bed.

Sam pushed all thoughts from his mind. Thinking hurt. Hank’s mouth was hot on his lips and jaw, and over the sharp ridges of his collarbone. Hank squeezed him and rubbed the ache from his shoulders and told him simple, animal things, like that he loved him and that Sam had scared him, and to hush, and it was not long before Sam felt hot all over, and so urgent.

The white cotton T Hank wore went first, and then Sam’s shirt and sweatshirt, and then Hank’s jeans and finally the ones Sam had taken from the bureau. They pushed their hips together and Hank reached between them. His cock left Sam’s skin damp wherever it touched and he spread the fluid over them both. He kissed Sam again and Sam tasted how needy he was, rubbing his hands over the soft buzz of Hank’s hair, and finally rocking up, easy, into him.

They pushed and slid and Sam took Hank in hand and felt Hank’s fingers close around him. They beat off slow and Hank came first, a few warm spurts over Sam’s belly. He teased Sam then, squeezing and tugging gentle at his balls and finally jerking his cock with even, familiar strokes. Sam came, too, and when it was finished he felt cool and empty.

Hank gathered him close and Sam dozed, coming back once when Hank pulled the big blanket on top of them and a second time when a rumble reached his ear.

“What?” He stretched one leg out, then the other. His hip joint popped.

Hank’s lips were a tickle at Sam’s forehead. “You never said,” he repeated, “what started this.” He passed his hand through Sam’s hair, but seemed otherwise content to be still. “What happened?”

Sam thought it over. It seemed stupid, and difficult to explain, but he tried. “Fell behind with some things. School. Put off group like I didn’t need it anymore.” He paused, and pressed his mouth into a small frown. “Scared about stuff, too, maybe.”

“Scared?”

Sam slid his hand down Hank’s chest, traced the line of a rib. “Getting out of school. Stepping up and--I don’t know. Becoming a contributing member of society.” He let Hank see his face, let him see the grin. It was supposed to be quick, because he was tired and Hank was a comfortable place to lie, but once he settled his gaze on those dark brown eyes he thought he’d look a little longer.

“You do contribute,” said Hank.

“Yeah.”

They fell quiet. Sam turned a few things over in his head while Hank watched. He’d been working at those things, at school and what he had with Hank, for so long that actually succeeding made part of him want to run. He saw it now, clear as day, but at the time all he’d felt was nameless dread. Call Jen, he thought. Fix this.

“And,” he said, and stopped.

Hank jumped on it. “And what?”

“And there’s me and you. Moving in. I don’t know.” He chewed his lip. “You really mean what you said? You hate it here?”

Hank sighed, and turned his gaze upward. He said, “Not hate,” and found Sam’s eyes again. “This is okay, out here. Not so bad. Sometimes though…”

Sam jumped on it. “Sometimes what?” He felt Hank shrug.

“Just wonder what I’m doing here is all. Sometimes.”

“Right.” Sam considered that. He’d lived in the city all his life, never strayed far from the west coast, but Hank had been all over, outside the country and in. He thought he could understand a case of itchy feet in that regard. “Well,” he said, thinking. “Maybe when I graduate--”

Hank gave him an honest, lopsided grin. He said, “Shh,” and urged Sam to lie down again. “Right now I don’t want to move from this spot before you graduate.”

They lay quietly and Sam tried to sleep. He thought from Hank’s breathing that he dozed but could not be sure. He was tired, not sick like before but feeling it bone-deep. He tried to think of a place Hank would like to go, and tried to imagine himself there too. It was an easy mental exercise, one that had him drifting. He still felt empty inside, and cool, but he thought that was good.