Beneath the Sky so Blue

A/N: I found this on my flash drive today. I think I write it about a year ago, no idea why I never put it up. The problem: it may or may not be finished, but I can't remember what I had planned for it. Would you like to see it continued? Please review.

Beneath the Sky so Blue

Black. With hints of color interspersed. A flower here, a butterfly there. A handful of colorful brooches. Bodies dressed in a mourner's black swirled about him, an air of purpose hanging around them. He stood as an anchor amongst a sea of civility and decorum and motion. Though not quite an anchor in the purest sense of the word, for there was no surety in his stance, no solidarity in his build, no assurance at his presence. He was anchor in spirit only, acting to ground those around him to reality, to keep them from straying too far into the abstract realms. And yet he felt without a purpose, the previous light of his existence having been taken from him by force at the hands of an inebriated bastard of a red-neck.

A presence made itself known behind him.

“Hey,” the presence said. It was Michael.

“Hey,” Chris responded.

“It's, uh, good to see you again,” Michael said.

They stood in silence for a moment, neither sure what to say to the other. Chris was suddenly aware of the cacophony of mundane sounds surrounding him: the clicking of heels against hardwood floors, the nervous cough made by uncomfortable mourners, the muted sobs of wives who had dragged their husbands to the funeral of some boy they didn't even know. They enveloped, suffocated him, the sounds. Surrounded him, overwhelmed him with their immutable presence. A fly buzzed around him. Or was it a wasp? A constant, low buzzing, circling him deliberately. Descending as it went about in its lazy spiral. After a moment, it flew away. Just another voice in the choir, indisputably adding to the din, but no longer singularly recognizable.

“Hey,” Michael said, “you, uh, want to get out of here or something? I don't know about you, but I can't stand these things.”

“I guess,” Chris said.

The silence returned. Not an awkward silence, as before, but a silence out of respect. A tribute to the passing of both a younger brother and a dear friend. They walked, slowly, toward the exit, shuffling through the throng as best they could, doing their best to avoid disturbing their fellow mourners with their presence. The side-door opened unto the bright sunshine of a cheerful spring morning. They both winced at the sudden change in lighting, the intensity of the sun's harsh glare momentarily blinding them. They meandered around the church, their sole intention to avoid everyone else attending the funeral. Birds chirped in the distance, their lighthearted song a stark contrast to the melancholy tones emanating from the pipe-organ within the church. All around them, flowers bloomed and everything was fresh and green and full of life. In the distance, they could see a squirrel rushing up a tree at seeing them. They wandered on until they found themselves at an ancient oak tree; they settled against the trunk, taking refuge in what shade the branches offered.

Chris reached into his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes: only two left. He offered one to Michael, who accepted. They smoked under the tree. In silence. The cloud in the sky—white and fluffy, a perfect representative of everyone outside of their world—passed overhead. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as the pair basked in each other's company. Their thoughts settled on nothing; for that moment, they merely existed, and nothing more. A thoughtless, emotionless existence where they just lived. And they enjoyed, appreciated, every minute of it.

“Alex and I,” Chris began, “we talked about everything. We had no secrets.” He paused, bringing the cigarette back between his lips for a moment, to collect himself. “He was the only one I told.”

“Told what?” Michael inquired.

“Chris, Michael!” A voice shouted from the distant. A female Chris didn't recognize. “There y'all are. Everyone's been looking for you.” She sounded out of breath, her panting interrupting her speech. “And what are y'all up to, so serious-like?” she asked in a more composed manner.

“We've just been talking, is all,” Michael responded. “Can't a guy get a few minutes to talk?”

“You've had your few minutes, and then some. Now what were y'all talking about?”

“Jesus, Jessica, can't we have some privacy?”

“No.”

Chris looked at the two bickering; it reminded him of when he and his brother used to have petty arguments. Didn't Michael have a sister? Was this her?

“If you want to know,” Chris said with a grin, “we were going over the intimate details of Michael's sex life. You are more than welcome to join in.”

Jessica blushed at that—and so did Michael, for that matter—and said she suddenly heard her mother calling her. She left in a greater hurry than she had come. Just as Jessica rounded the corner of the church building, Chris heard a gasp escape Michael's lips.

“Shit,” Michael exclaimed, “She's liable to tell my parents I've been smoking. . .”

“They won't care,” Chris said.

“You don't know my parents,” Michael said as he threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. He made to leave, but Chris grabbed his arm. Michael turned his head back; their eyes locked.

“I never told you what I told my brother. Didn't you want to know?”

“I guess,” Michael said, relaxing in Chris's grip slightly, but noticeably.

“I told Alex my greatest secret, something I have never told anyone else,” Chris began, “and I'm only telling you because you are—were his best friend.” Chris paused to put out his cigarette as well. “You see, my sexual preferences lie outside the norm, if you get what I mean.” Chris winked in an attempt to lighten the somber mood.

“I get what you mean.”

“Now it's your turn. To tell me your secret.”

Chris was still holding on to Michael, though his grip had slackened.

“You want to know my secret?” Michael said playfully.

“Yes.”

“One I never even told your brother?”

“Yes,” Chris repeated flatly, with no tinge of eagerness or aggression. He said it as if speaking a certainty, that there was no chance of Michael not telling him.

“You know,” Michael began, his voice drawling, “you really do look a lot like your brother.” He paused to remove himself from Chris's grip. “If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were twins.”

“What does that have to do with—” Chris was unable to finish as Michael crushed their lips together. It was a panicked, rushed kiss. A kiss of urgency and desperation. A kiss that ended abruptly with pants on both sides. Chris shifted them to the other side of the tree, out of site of any onlookers.

Michael pressed Chris against the tree and resumed their embrace. A desperate, clinging passion drove Chris to deepen the kiss, the contact. Their hands roamed over each other's bodies in search of that comfort that had, as yet, alluded them. Flesh pressed against flesh, hands grabbing at disparate reaches of their bodies separated only by flimsy cloth. Chris was semi-conscious of the tree behind him, the discomfort of its hard crags and protuberances pressing against his back easily drowned out by the sensation of Michael frantically clinging to his front. Michael's hand found its way to the hem of Chris's shirt; Chris's hand found Michael's pants.

They paused.

Michael untangled himself from Chris, but was unable to make eye contact. A blush slowly crept its way up Michael's cheeks. They stood: Chris still against the tree, Michael looking at the ground.

No words could be spoken then between them and hold any meaning. It was silence they needed, more than anything, silence away from distractions. But then Chris had a thought, and it deserved voicing: “How long. . . ?”

“Maybe a year,” Michael said, “maybe two. Who knows.”

Then Chris put two and two together. “You liked my brother?”

“Entirely one-sided,” he said. “Never more than just hopeless longing.”

And then they were upon each other once more. Neither could say why, really, just that they needed it. It was a release they sorely needed, either way. A hand on a cock relieves more than just sexual tension, you know, can do so much more if only you let it.

Chris's hand was the first to move, inside the other's pants. Long, slow strokes, he used, while Michael favored short and fast. They came together, both a sticky mess. There's never much to say after that; they mostly just stared.

Then Jessica's voice came calling, said it was time to leave, unless Michael wanted to walk back. Or, you know, Chris could drive him—he had a car. Sure, she said, or something like it, whatever. The parents were okay with it, at least.

And then they had all the time in the world.