"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance...
and there is pansies, that's for thoughts."
--Ophelia, "Hamlet", IV.v.174.
You ask him to come closer.
It feels like ages since you've touched him...but really it has only been months. And he feels strange and alien and yet so fucking familiar. Smooth and warm and soft and taut as you move over him...and then he gasps "Stop!". He pleads. It's desperate.
And you lose your carefully-erected cool...you stumble out of place...you move to the side of the bed and forget how to breathe.
Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. You lose him. Again.
You've never taken the same trick into your bed twice. But you've lost count of the times you've been with Justin. Over the last year, you kicked him out a thousand times and then pulled him back in a thousand-and-one and there is no place in this loft that hasn't felt the press of your bodies.
You fucked him on every flat surface. On every not-flat surface. The counter, the floor, the funky art deco chaise, the wall...he came to you everywhere and anywhere, ready and willing and able.
You would wake up exhausted...downing three cups of coffee and a power shake before heading to the agency...and look forward to coming home and doing him all over again.
Home. Him. It started to become synonymous.
Before you knew it, you were lying to Mikey and the boys and telling them you just weren't "in the mood" for Babylon...or that you had to work late on a campaign...and you would strip off your clothes and watch his eyes go dark with anticipation and slide into place inside him.
You couldn't get enough. And he always came back to give you more.
During the day, you could convince yourself he was stalking you. That you were annoyed by him. That you didn't give a shit about him. But night...in your arms on the dance floor or in your bed...he belonged.
Sex was where you let yourself talk to him.
Sex was where you could relate.
Sex was where you loved him.
And now you don't even have that.
Because he can't remember.
Because...he might not *want* to.
And you don't blame him.
Not one bit.
"Like the first time?"
It is half-question, half-memory. And you kiss the curve of his neck and wonder why you wasted so much fucking time never kissing it before.
You've done enough K and GHB in your life to wipe out a million visions from your mind, but there are a few things you'll never be able to erase. The first time. *"Just relax..."* A baseball bat. *"Justin!"* Blood. *"No no no no no"*
And the way he tastes.
Salt. Sugar. Sunshine. Melting on your tongue like concentrated Ecstasy and you want to curl around him, sink into him, until he feels nothing, sees nothing, remembers nothing, except you.
You want to make sure he won't forget.
Not this time.
And he doesn't whisper "Stop." He simply says "Yes." And "Brian". And "Oh God". And "I love you."
Tomorrow, you'll pretend you never said "I love you, too."
But you'll remember that you meant it.
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