fugue - Oblique Publications

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FUGUE ˆˆˆˆˆ
JANE BARON
ˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆ
until his next watch, he made for his cabin. The
maelstrom was already whistling in his ears as
he stepped through the door. Once inside, it hit
him.
When the door chimed, he was sitting on
the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees,
hands dangling uselessly between. He couldn’t
stir as he watched it slide open, any more than
he’d been able to stir since he’d first lowered
himself down here hours ago. Instead, he
watched neat black boots move until they were
directly in front of him. Then he looked up at
Kerr.
It had been a while since he’d taken time
to fully appreciate the heavy-eyed beauty, the
unabashed sensuality, the sweetness he now saw
so clearly. Or at least that was how it suddenly
felt. He’d forgotten to be grateful, to savor, and
now…
Kerr, adjusting to this new greeting
position, knelt on one knee between Blake’s
splayed legs and leaned his head against Blake’s
arm. He sighed. Without haste, Blake curled his
hand to work fingers into downy hair.
He’d thought they would make love,
thought that that would be important. It wasn’t.
He felt no sexual response at all, only the unbearable
tenderness which had terrified him at the
start.
And rightly so.
Blake slid off the bed to kneel, himself,
drawing Kerr into the protective valley of legs,
encompassing him with shielding arms, holding
Kerr against his heart. And then he simply held
on, as if he could save them both, as if he could
stop what was about to happen, if he could only
stay like that forever.
Avon was a dark silhouette at the rest
room table, his back to the door. In the doorway,
Blake traced with his eyes the sleek line of bent
head, the brown hair nearly touching the discreetly
high collar, the studious set of shoulder.
And felt nothing.
That wasn’t right; surely there should be
ˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆ PÆAN TO PRIAPUS
grief or anger or trepidation, some visceral reaction,
some sense at least of regret at an unpleasant
task to be done.
Nothing.
He was only very tired.
“Avon.” He stopped a few paces away,
thinking for a moment with a kind of hushed
delirium that Avon was not going to respond to
him, was not going to turn around. And then
Blake would move forward and find him asleep,
and would leave him there, peaceful on the
cheoplastic table, and none of this would have
happened.
Avon turned. He’d simply been absorbed
in his perspex readout. “Yes?”
There were dark circles under the dark
eyes. No, neither of them had got any sleep last
night. Did Avon even realize that much?
“I want you to come with me, please.”
Vitality enough to form the words appeared out
of nowhere. He would be able to say whatever
needed to be said. “I’m afraid it’s important.”
“What’s gone wrong?” —sharply.
“Noth—” Blake caught himself and
gazed into the dull gloss of the table, almost
smiling. Oh, there was irony for you.
Avon was staring at him, lost as he was
in the contemplation of bits of alien furniture.
“Avon, I need to speak to you now, in private.
Please come with me.”
And Avon weighed the printout in his
hand, then tossed it aside resignedly, and followed.
The vial of Lethe was on his desk, an
island in a sea of clear space. Blake could not
detect any change in Avon’s expression when
the brown eyes rested on it, and when they lifted
to his they were unconcerned, unspeculative.
Avon showed only a composed and mild
curiosity as he glanced around the room—that of
a man surveying a room he’d never seen before.
With that, in that instant, emotion returned
to Blake. Muted but entirely recognizable,
a hurricane outside the door. And it was
pain, an ache that went deeper than bone or
ˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆˆ