Chapter Six

GRAYSON

A medley of light jazz music and moderate chatter greets my attention, closing Julian's journal to return to my present state of fuckery. I've spent too much time here, so I toss a fifty-dollar bill down for the bartender. He didn't pry for information after my near meltdown in front of a stranger. So, the excessive tip is for that reason and the fact he provided good service. But if I don't leave right now, I'm afraid I'll release more waterworks.

Julian was wrong though. I think to myself, recalling our first kiss. I didn't have any practice before him. He was my first kiss. And my last. There's zero doubt I'll ever love another man for as long as I live.

That enchanting afternoon on the hill. My gaze locked into his, studying the shade of Julian's irises—a darker tinge from Jack Daniel's whiskey. His hands trailed the edges of my body as we laid in the grass, our lips sealed into the other. They formed random shapes in short intervals. He and I both only parted briefly to take breaths of the crisp February breeze, while the sun kissed Felton a warm goodbye.

The wretched humidity greets my flushed skin as soon as I step outside to the sidewalk on Chrystie Street. There's no question what my instincts have been reprogrammed to reach for—another cigarette from my messenger bag. My eyes liven, watching a fiery orange cylinder left in the lighter's wake.

Raising my sight, I'm reminded of the strong alcohol smell exuding from every sweat gland of my body. Once I return to my room, a shower will be in order. Especially now that I have fresh clothes—and the time. Perhaps it'll help distract me from thinking about Julian for the millionth time today.

Back at the hotel, I find myself standing between three walls cloaked with stone tiling. The water beating down into my back hits with precision, easing all the tension built up amongst my neck and shoulders. It's been nearly eighty-three hours since I've bathed last, making me shudder with what everyone's thought of my stink. But if the wells of my soul haven't been reenacting our last trip to Niagara Falls, I've been busy fighting sleep or drowning in the murky waters of an abysmal purgatory. Fuck me, not again.

More weeping ensues as I battle the demons which have since begun razing my torn spirit. Leaning into a tile wall, the fold of my arm comforts my aching head as I remember the last time I showered.

I stood before Julian, sat on the bench of our walk-in shower, streams of water bouncing off our skin from the spout above. With a sponge in hand, I lathered soap across his shoulders, all the while carefully caressing the length of each arm. Piles of suds slid down the front of his torso and sides, before swirling into the drain.

In that moment, I couldn't help but wonder what thoughts slogged through the molasses of his brain. If he'd even been able to think much at all. I can only imagine when someone isn't fully lucid, it must feel like being stuck in the middle of a darkened street without so much as a wink of light to illuminate their path.

Julian stared ahead, aimlessly, between short intervals of glancing up in my direction with the faintest smile. My aspect replied in kind. But I questioned if his smile was out of place or if his faculties were intact, offering a moment of clarity. I summoned his head to the side of my stomach while I lathered soap across his shoulders and backside. And out of habit, I bent forward to plant a kiss on the crown of his head.

"Te amo magis quam ipsa vito—I love you more than life itself," I said, weaving shampoo into his thick, greyed landscape.

He muttered back. "Tu es toto vito meus—Grayson—You are my entire life."

For a brief moment, I wondered if he was transitioning back to a lucid state. Or if his response was a consequence of our innate bond. As much as I wanted to whisk him back to the bed and make love before heading into work, I knew it wouldn't be right to take advantage of his fleeting acuity. Or even if his brain decided to spring back to life, it would be a fucking miracle if it lasted until I could climax. In days past, he'd been able to go a while between lapses. But this goddamn disease always leaves a person guessing.

After rinsing his hair, I allowed the water to jet down on us, rinsing the suds from his skin. Meanwhile, I used the remaining soap already soaked into the sponge to wipe myself down, before washing the shampoo from my own scalp.

My concentration breaks, face planted flat against the cool stone surface. I'm now swept away from what is only a distant memory, left shattered by the realization that I'll never feel his skin against mine under a hot shower. Let alone at all. Never fucking again. I rinse the remaining shampoo from my mop, then slide a thin bar of hotel soap around my pits with a circular motion. The temperate water gushes down, inundating the drain with suds.

Reaching for a plush towel above the toilet, I remove myself with a dejected sigh. After tying the towel snug around my waist, I wipe a small area clear on the fogged mirror. Although I feel clean on the outside, the cruel echo catching my achy vision leaves much to be desired. There's so much uncertainty about the gritty dissension and despair beneath my skin. Will it ever subside? All I'm left to hope for is that the shower relaxed me enough so I can get quality rest. Even more crucial now that I've decided to burn rubber in the morning.

The concerning fact that I've yet to hear back from the coroner leaves me more than a little perturbed. But I can imagine they're backlogged, this being New York City and all. As I slip into a fresh pair of boxers, the question of how much longer he'll take to call stings my curiosity. Once dressed, I detect a strong desire for another smoke after enjoying two earlier. Within moments, I'm trekking the hallway with a bottle of Coke from the fridge, my pack of Camels, and Julian's journal from Felton.

My feet file out from the elevator which has ascended to the roof level of this hotel. Treading outside, I chide Mother Nature because it's still fucking hot as Hades. I've left my phone back down in the room on its charger, because it hasn't even seen forty percent. That's mostly thanks to me taking it to the bar.

Scanning the surroundings, I make note of a small brood up here. They're engaged in a deep conversation about Ray Liotta's death. There's a small, square table in the corner of the rooftop lounge, adorned with a seemingly comfortable chair beside it. A cavernous yawn is stifled, as I situate myself amongst the cushion. The view from up here isn't awful either, accentuated by another lit cigarette. Smoke billows over the ledge upon a long drag. And once the feeling of nicotine flourishes my bloodstream, I'm at ease enough to reminisce on days past.