Chapter Eight: In Sunlight

--------Justin’s Point of View------------

 I have wandered through this world 

And as each moment has unfurled 

I’ve been waiting to awaken from these dreams 

People go just where they will 

I never noticed them until I got this feeling 

That it’s later than it seems. 

It’s four inches long and as sharp as a machete. It sits in a small black leather box with white silk lining.  He keeps it in the top drawer of his bedside table.

I start to feel a little vomit rise in my throat as he opens the box for me. As I see his fingers grab it easily from its plush lining and hold it with such a steady, practiced hand. Suddenly I imagine him shopping for this; shopping for a razor to cut himself with.  I swallow and take the box when he returns the blade there. 

When he sees me with it, he looks down at the floor. 

“You cut yourself in *here*?” I ask incredulously. That he would risk getting blood on his precious sheets, his magical bed and his duvet is genuinely alarming. 

He shrugs his shoulders a little in an affirmative way, and his nonchalance makes my blood boil.  

“What the hell, Brian?! What about your sheets? Your bed? They could be stained by the blood and --” I pause, willing myself not to cry --  “and you could have permanent scars!” 

He looks down again and I see him biting the inside of his cheek. 

“What are you thinking? What would make you do something like this?” I demand and he clears his throat. 

“Thinking about you.” His voice so vulnerable and earnest.

What. The. Fuck.

“Thinking about me makes you want to suffer? I don’t get it. I do not get it, Brian. Tell me, please…what the fuck you’re fucking TALKING ABOUT!” I feel shaky and my voice is much more out of control than I would ever like to admit. 

He looks at me,  his eyes so full of pain and he shakes his head. 

“No -- it’s not like that,” he says. 

“Then what is it like? I can’t -- can’t imagine what you do -- how you do this,” I say, letting my finger brush against the cool metal of the blade and feel its exceptionally sharp, smooth edge. 

When I look back up I see tears in Brian’s eyes.

The anger dissipates just as fast as it came, seeing him there, eyes bright green and brimming with unshed tears, his face the picture of sorrow and desperation. I go to him and wrap my arms around him. He holds me too, smoothing my hair against his cheek.

--------------Brian’s Point of View------------

Doctor, my eyes 

Tell me what is wrong

Was I unwise to leave them open for so long? 

Tell me what you see 

I hear their cries 

Just say if it’s too late for me

My eyes cannot see the sky

Is this the prize for having learned how not to cry? 

“I’m not that successful in New York,” he says softly in my ear. “I hope you’re not… ashamed of me.” 

I blink a few times and pull away from him, taking him firmly by the shoulders. 

“Sunshine….I could never be ashamed of you. And you’re an amazing artist no matter who pays how much at what gallery in what city…I just want you happy living your own life,” I tell him, looking into his eyes. 

He bites his lip and pulls me in for another long hug. 

“I’m only happy when I’m here, living with you,” he says into the peace of the loft. 

I nuzzle against me and pull him tighter around me. 

“Me too.” 

Neither of us says anything for a long time. After a little while, he sits and pulls me down to the bed with him. We lay there, bodies touching, spread out on the bed. The razor in its box sitting next to Justin. The combination is at once incongruent and perfect.

We stay there, in sunlight and silence and I realize that our breathing has synchronized. 

“That’s what this is about,” I say softly while my fingers trail along his arm.  He looks at me closely, his eyes narrowing.

“About me being here and being happy?” he asks, his eyes searching mine. 

“Yeah.”