Memory

by Angela

November 2003

 

            We were together--by that I mean really together--only once.  It wasn’t on any particular day; it didn’t proceed or follow any special event.  It happened one lazy morning in the midst of everything and nothing.

            Looking back, it was the most precious moment of my life.

           

            We were living in that posh Fifth Avenue apartment--the one Ash pretended he got for a steal.  His gang was always in and out of that place, like it was some kind of military headquarters.  I guess that’s what it was.  I served tea and sodas and piled trays full of potato chips and snack cakes.  Day in and day out, I was more like a house boy than a roommate.  More like a burden than a friend.

            At night it was different.  Ash would come home, world-weary and nearly broken some nights, and tell me the few things about his life that he deemed safe for me to know.  He would sprawl out on the couch and tell me stories about growing up, about his gang, about Shorter.  They were all brief and poignant, free of the lewd details and harsh realities I knew he’d lived.  I filled in the blanks.

            Usually his green eyes stayed bright and alert, some kind of insomnia keeping him up long after I surrendered to sleep.  That night was different.  He’d told me some story--enough like the others that I can’t single it out--and fallen asleep with his head in my lap.  For a long time I was awake, combing his hair with my fingers and wondering how long he would let me continue living his life instead of my own.  I wanted time to freeze like that, with Ash breathing softly, his weight and warmth as familiar as my own.  I must’ve fallen asleep some time before dawn, because when I woke, the sunshine dazzled my eyes.

            Ash was stirring, lifting his head slowly as though trying to decipher where he was and why he’d been sleeping there.

            “Good morning,” I said softly as his startled eyes met mine.

            “Why are we . . .  Did you sleep all night like that?”  He sat up quickly and reached for my shoulders.  “You’ll get a stiff neck that way,” he chided as his hands kneaded my tense muscles.

            “It’s okay,” I assured him, my heart constricting at the concern in his face, the way his hair stood up at all angles.  I’d loved him for a very long time, and though I’d come to terms--as I suspected Ash had--with the impossibility of things between us, I was prone to moments of longing that I’m sure must’ve shown on my face.

            “Don’t look at me like that,” he protested then.  His cheeks flushed and his brow furrowed, but he didn’t look away.

            It was the empty stillness in the apartment that made me bold, or the way he breathed with his lips parted, the sheen of saliva making them glisten.  “It’s only the way I feel,” I answered, reaching out a hand to trace the imprint my sweater made on his cheek.  “You make me look like this.”

            “Eiji,” his voice was suddenly shaking.  “Eiji, no.”

            And it broke my heart that Ash--who had known such suffering--would suffer most in the face of love.  He was afraid.  I was afraid.  The whole crazy world was out to get us and we were afraid only of each other.  I almost let it go.  I almost looked away and stood up and left the room, leaving Ash time to pull his walls back up.  Leaving me time to force myself to forget yet again.

            I didn’t.

            I leaned close to him, close enough to smell the stale beer on his breath and feel the pulse of his warmth on my skin.  “I want us to say the words we leave unsaid,” I whispered, brushing my mouth against his.  “I want to acknowledge what we both know but never mention.”

            His lips trembled.  He put a hand against my face and I leaned into it.  “It’s no good,” he told me softly.  “Don’t you see how we’ll tear each other up?” 

            I shook my head, turning my face to kiss his palm.  “I’m already torn up, Ash.”

            I’d had no idea that he was so near the breaking point.

            His kiss was unexpectedly rough.  I fell back on the sofa pillows, unprepared for the pressure of his mouth and body on mine.  I fumbled my arms around him, grasping his shoulders, shocked at the sudden shift.

            He pulled back just as abruptly, his panting breath spilling on my face and my mouth still wet with the taste of him.  “It can’t be pretty between us, Eiji,” he said hoarsely.  “I don’t know how--”  He faltered, his eyes shining unnaturally.  “Hell, I don’t know if I’ll be alive tomorrow.  How can I promise you anything?”

            It was the life he lived.  And if he chose to live it that way, I chose to be beside him.  I shook my head.  “I don’t want promises.  I just want--”  I looked away, unable to finish.  I’d never kissed anyone before Ash.  I’d never touched anyone.  I didn’t know how to be confident.  “I want you to understand how I feel about you,” I finished quietly.

            Ash searched my face, pushing my hair away from my forehead.  “I know,” he told me.  “I’ve known.”

            He kissed me for a long time then.  I closed my eyes and held him close against me, letting my hands learn the contours of his back and shoulders through his t-shirt.  His muscles bunched beneath my fingers, tensing and flexing as though each touch were a shock.  He took off my clothes slowly, letting his fingers and then mouth caress each new bit of exposed skin.  I grasped clumsily at his shirt and jeans, unable to keep my shaking hands steady enough to manage without his help.

            When we were finally naked he paused to look at me.  I flushed beneath his scrutiny, partly because he looked at me with raw admiration and desire, and partly because I had never seen a body so perfect as Ash’s.  His skin was smooth and golden in the sunlight, his hair bright and messy.

            “You’re beautiful,” I breathed, unable to contain my awe.  I traced the fine line of a scar across one bicep, using my lips to caress another beneath his collarbone.  “These scars . . .”  Others crisscrossed in jagged lines across his midsection and back.  “How did you get them?”

            “Some are from fighting,” he answered easily, motioning to the scratch across his arm.  “The others--” he faltered, long lashes hiding his eyes for a moment.  “I was a toy, Eiji.  A slave.  I had to do whatever they wanted.”           

            The thought of anyone being so cruel made my stomach turn.  The lines were faded, old.  He must’ve been just a boy.  Hot tears burned my eyes as I bent to trail kisses along the crisscrosses.  “I want to erase them,” I told him. 

            He held me tightly, letting long moments pass before speaking.  “I’ve never done this,” he said, his voice low.  “I’ve never done this like this.  For love.”

            Inexperience made me hesitant; Ash filled my pauses with gentle coaxing.  He tutored my fumbling caresses.  We came together slowly.  His touch was gentle--as earnest as it was skillful.  As my body accommodated his, I gasped.

            Ash froze, his mouth stilled mid-kiss on my shoulder. 

             “Ash,” I whispered, my throat dry.  It was almost too much--this feeling was somehow more enormous than I’d expected.

            He didn’t answer, just kissed me again with wide expressive eyes.  We moved together.  His warmth and scent engulfed me, his face seeming to glow in the morning sunshine.

            Afterward we held each other.  Ash spoke, his voice low and urgent.  He told me to remember that morning.  That, no matter what happened to us--no matter how much we might hurt each other or how far apart we’re torn--this was how truly was between us.

            It was with reluctance that we untangled, but we both knew that privacy was rare, that any moment Bones or Alex or any other member of his gang might burst through the door with pressing information.  Ash headed off to the shower and I dressed slowly in the living room, staring out the huge windows into Central Park.  Most of the trees were gold and orange.  Here and there a bare trunk stood boldly among them.  I wrapped my arms around myself, reluctant to wash of the scent of him.  It was as though his arms were around me still.

 

            Years later it’s autumn again.  Ash is gone--his smell, his warmth, his taste--faded into memory.  I watch the leaves drift from the trees and remember him.  I have a new lover.  He’s young and strong and he knows me from before--for some reason it’s crucial that he knows me from when I was with Ash.  He’s touched me dozens of times more and in a hundred different ways than Ash did, and I love him.

            But Ash . . .  Somehow, even after I showered that morning--for weeks afterward and still today--I could feel his arms around me.  I don’t even have to close my eyes to see his face, his smile, those flashing green eyes.  It was only that one morning, but it colored every moment we lived, every look and every touch.  It colors my life still. 

            The world was cruel and it became even crueler, but Ash was right.  The trust, the passion, the love--that was how it truly was between us.