******************
ch. 6 - survivors
Beecher left France on a rainy Monday morning, getting drunk during the return flight to ease the pain and the sorrow.
A week ago a mass had been held in the old little chapel perched at the top of the hill –long columns of people walking up the path under the sun, the small church overflowed with artists, city officials, everyone from the village and even a former Minister of Arts who’d been a fervent admirer of Keller’s paintings from the very beginning…
…Crowded inside the old chapel, listening to the priest’s voice reverberated by the thick walls, praying for Keller to live, an old painted wooden statue of the Virgin Mary looking down at them with a compassionate expression.
Beecher had listened to the young enthusiastic priest, not knowing what to wish. He wanted Keller dead; it was the right price to pay for vengeance, the price to pay to give his dead friends a restful peace. Peace for Leslie. But- He wanted Keller alive for himself; he wanted to be able to close his eyes at night when he’d be back home and know that Keller was alive somewhere. Like a part of himself. The only two survivors of an old war... Just what Keller had told him the first time they’d met.
Beecher had spent ten more days at Keller’s bedside but after that Keller signed himself out of the hospital against his doctors’ advice -so weak and tired he could barely stand. Pale, emaciated and stubbornly determined; of course nothing would change his mind, especially not the numerous wise advice that maybe just one more week in hospital would be a sensible decision. Beecher knew better than to say anything; and actually as soon as Keller entered his house, he managed to look better –and very blunt, perfectly Keller-like. He let Beecher buy some groceries, call a nurse, make sure everything was all set then asked him to leave.
“Get out of here,” he said “before
I really get pissed. Then I’d have to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” Beecher snorted, shook his head “You can barely
move! Listen, you can’t…”
“I’m afraid you didn’t quite hear me. Get the fuck out of
here. I’m certainly not having you as a nurse. Do I have to shoot you
down to get rid of you?”
Beecher would’ve stayed, even the promise he’d made to Gen wasn’t enough to make him leave, not when he was facing a half-dead Keller. Something probably showed on his face –his best stubborn expression, the pouting lip his family knew so well.
The little strength Keller had left was enough to retrieve his gun and aim it shakily at Beecher’s chest.
“Don’t you even glance backwards, Beecher. Just… Just leave, go back to your wife, your kids, your job. Move on. Forget about me. You don’t need me, I don’t need you. We’re done, it’s over, we’re through with this.”
Beecher didn’t even try to fight; he left without a word. A taxi to the airport, the drinks…
His plane landed two hours before Harry was born; he got his father’s call in the taxi that took him back home After that it all happened in a rush, preventing him to dwell on the past. Harry was a wonderful baby, Gen didn’t ask anything; Beecher resumed his own life, everyone acting as if he’d never left, and for some time years he thought he’d found it. Peace of mind. Happiness of a kind.
All of it a fucking lie.
***********************************
T he end of a sunny afternoon in the middle of May.
Keller was sitting on the terrace, looking at the man walking up toward the house, looking for the right path between the mimosas and the junipers, avoiding the treacherous stones, making a pause before turning left to meet the old stony trail that led behind the house.
A glimpse of fair hair when the sun fell down on him from behind a cloud, an unmistakable silhouette.
Chris sat back and sighed.
Toby fucking Beecher in all his glorious tenacity.
This guy was so stubborn… shit! What part of “stay away” didn’t he understand?
And why now? They’d spent five years apart –just one phone call from Beecher and Keller hadn’t been too nice.
On the other hand, Keller thought, wiping his hands on his jeans, getting laid was a nice prospect- he could be a little soft on Beecher after all. Fuck him senseless before kicking his ass out, looking deep into those baby blue eyes to see the pain? Or the rage, maybe?
Aw fuck, he had it bad, just thinking about it made him hard already.
He heard the footsteps on the gravel as Beecher walked around the house. He picked up his brush, tracing a long sinuous red line across the white surface. Red. Earth. Fire. Burning…
“Hi,” the voice said, sounding
exactly like he remembered it, both shy and scruffy.
“Hey, Beecher, what a surprise!”
“I...”
He’d brought wine, just like the first time.
“Don’t even bother saying anything.
I’m working. Anything you wanna say will have to wait. The glasses are
in the kitchen, you know which cabinet.”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking, Keller,” Beecher said
and snorted “Christ. It would kill you, wouldn’t it, just looking
pleased to see me.”
“That would be lying, Beecher. Go pour that wine and let me work.”
………………….
B astard, Beecher thought; but it wasn’t enough to make him leave. Not even to make him angry; Keller’s indifference sounded studied and forced. All the ordinary Keller macho bullshit, just what Beecher expected.
So he did just that. Poured two glasses and settled on the low wall, looking down at the hills, the village, the sea bathed in a golden sunshine and Keller could see him just at the corner of his sight, looking good, a little thinner, maybe, hardly looking any older, thinking how long it had been since he’d forced him to walk back, and out of his house, down the that road, the gun aimed at him.
…………………………..
“G et the fuck away from here, and don’t you ever set foot on my property again, you fucker.” Keller felt so angry after 2 weeks of being poked and prodded; tested then shot with drugs, sick with painkillers and other stuff; felt so angry at himself and the fucker who’d shot him, and so fucking angry at Beecher and O’Reily and the whole fucking *world*. So angry that he would’ve hurt Beecher, no matter what. Out of himself. At least Beecher had understood and left without a word.
He’d watched Beecher’s silhouette vanish in the distance before crashing, spending two days in bed locked inside his house, the gun at his side ready. An animal licking his wounds. For a whole year he’d thought he wouldn’t make it. Wouldn’t be able to walk again, work again. Fuck again. Live again. Not even sure his life was worth all these efforts.
Then one day, out of the blue, he resumed working. On a cold winter morning with a very crude light shaping every detail mercilessly he wanted to paint what he saw from the armchair where he’d spent the whole night, drinking, smoking joints. He retrieved his neglected brushes and an old canvas and began painting. When he stopped it was dark already.
I’m back, he thought, although he didn’t know what he was back to.
His paintings had changed. Deeper shades of brown, touches of red. Sometimes a trace of blue. Rage and resentment and despair entangled in what the art critics called the “dark period”. Small paintings when he’d been so fond of monumental canvasses. Critics didn’t know shit about him.
Doctors, therapists, nurses, and for months the relentless pain that no drugs would ease. Working nonetheless to feel alive, useful, to be the one who’d survived, the strong one. Everybody was dead –everybody but him and Beecher.
Now what?
He sighed and looked at his guest. OK, he’d take the hint, play Beecher’s game.
“So,” he said “how’re
the kids? The little woman? The job?”
“Fine.” Beecher said quietly.
“So why did you come back?”
Beecher was staring at his glass.
“Don’t tell me,” Keller said
“Wanted to be roughed up a bit? Fucked into the mattress?”
“You’re such a romantic, Keller.”
“The fuck I am. What do you want, Beech?”
“I think…” Beecher’s voice, reluctant and low. “I
think that’s about it. Just like you said.”
“You’re shameless, you know that?”
“Yes. I know. I don’t think it bothers you too much, considering
who you are.”
“Gloves are off, then?”
“Were they ever on?”
You had to give the guy credit, he had balls.
“So,” Chris said, fading the next
red line with his fingertips and wiping them on his jeans, “You were good
for five years, took care of the wife and kids and now you’re here to
get your reward, am I right? Or do you still want to kill me?”
“Keep it up this way and I just might,” Beecher said, glaring at
him, standing up. “Mind if I take a shower?”
“Help yourself. Take the wine back to the kitchen; the sun is bad for
that baby.”
Didn’t it sound perfectly domestic?
Keller had spent part of those five years wishing Beecher was here and the other half wanting to be left alone. Well, he’d spent most of the days wishing to be left alone –which he’s been mostly if you except some nosy journalists and a few old friends, all of them running away pretty fast because man could Keller be one mean and scary motherfucker when he wanted to- but most of the nights he spent touching himself, bringing himself to an unbearable state of arousal and wishing that Beecher was there.
As soon as he’d gotten his strength back
he drove to nearby cities, fucking rich tourists in luxury hotels. Women who
didn’t even know what his name was. He would fuck them with his eyes closed.
But now Beecher was here, standing in front of him, damp from the shower, tight
black polo and jeans unbuttoned opening on a trail of blond hair… Keller
reached out and brushed his fingers against it, warm skin, soft hair getting
coarse a little lower, feeling Beecher shiver…
“Don’t they dress decently anymore
in your country?”
“Coming from you, that’s pretty funny.” Beecher’s shaky
voice
“Yeah. I bet I can find a way to make it a lot less funny.”
With that he withdrew his hand.
Beecher blushed and looked down. Ah, not so bold, after all.
“Are you nervous? Did you think I’d
kick you out?”
“Yeah well… I don’t know; I wasn’t sure.”
“You know, an easy fuck is nothing I’d turn down, especially not
if it’s a good one, and on top of all a home delivered good fuck.”
Beecher poured himself a second glass of wine, his hands trembling a bit. Keller frowned.
“So what’s this? Did you decide
to take up drinking?”
“Shit happens.”
“Stop playing the tough guy; that crap doesn’t work with me.”
And suddenly Keller was up, wiping his hands with a cloth and dropping it, turning to Beecher.
“Come on, let’s get it on; I don’t want you drunk, not yet.”
Taken off guard Beecher put down the glass on the stones too hard, breaking it, shattering it into pieces on the floor, staining the tiles purple. Keller came to him and dragged him inside.
“Freaking out there, Beech?”
He didn’t even leave him a second to figure it out; his tongue was already deep in Beecher’s mouth, his fingers digging in Beecher’s hips through the worn fabric of his jeans, his knee parting Beecher thighs while he was pulling him closer, kissing him harder.
“Yeah, you came all this way for it; a pretty expensive fuck, I’d say,” he whispered against Beecher’s mouth, leaving him a little time to recover, then tugging at the shirt and the jeans “these come off.”
And when he had Beecher naked against him, trembling and warm and looking almost frail, and maybe just a bit scared he thought he might come in his pants just from this.
Get a grip Keller. Make it last. You don’t know how long he’s gonna stay.
So yeah, leading him to the bedroom but not too gently, throwing him on the bed and then landing on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head hard, bruising; fuck he wanted bruises, he wanted marks, he wanted to look at Beecher in the morning and see the damage done and he wanted Beecher’s breath to come out just like this, a painful hiss when Keller bit his jaw hard and licked the wound.
Frenzy took over. Keller pulled the drawer open, retrieved the lube, coated himself “no latex, baby; I’m safe; I’ll assume you are too” and didn’t even prepare him. Just the rough invasion and Beecher moaned in pain, or surprise or pleasure, tried to accommodate, panting. Keller waited until Beecher stopped shaking.
Grabbed his hips and pulled hard, impaling Beecher on his cock, listened to the sharp intake of breath
“Fuck you, Keller, you like this…”
“Yeah; surprised?”
He thrust once, hard, twice, slow and heavy, changing the angle and the speed; licked the sweat rolling down Beecher’s cheek, or maybe a tear; salty and warm all the same and yes, wasn't it just the way he wanted it, dreamed it would be; fucking Beecher hard, feeling him try to adjust, trying to pick a rhythm that would match his own -and failing, having to give in to what Keller wanted because fuck, Keller's anger was rising and boiling and bubbling just under the surface and he didn’t even know where it came from –you left, you fucking left me, you didn’t even try to come back until today and suddenly it reached on him; Beecher’s pain and fear and he slowed down.
Leaned forward to kiss the dry lips, slid his tongue inside, stopped moving, waited until Beecher was there again, waiting for his heart to slow down then starting again; slow this time, slow and effortless and so fucking good and he was not going to stop, not now, not ever, he’d fuck him for all the days to come, make up for five years of frustration…
Beecher hissed, throwing his head back and coming, hard, against Chris’ belly, moaning low in his throat...
A few more thrusts and Keller was coming too. No matter how long it lasted, he couldn’t resign himself to let go. Eventually he collapsed on Beecher’s body and fell asleep.
***************************
Beecher woke up late, sore and exhausted, wanted to move and gave up; only opened his eyes to look at the room. The bed was still in the shadows but sunshine was flooding the rest of the room with an unmistakable light. Pure, bright, luminous –nowhere else, Toby thought, nowhere else was the light that dazzling; nowhere else was the day that triumphant, a constant victory over the darkness.
The room smelled like coffee, a cup was near the bed; Toby drank the bitter strong beverage, and lay back.
“Ah, you’re awake,” Keller
said from the door.
“You too,” Beecher said putting the cup on the floor.
“Yeah. There’s great light this morning, I got up at 5 and thought
I’d get some work done.”
“And did you?”
“Sure did.”
Keller strode in with his usual confidence. Barefoot, old stained jeans and
the shirt had been black. Long ago. The mattress gave way under his weight and
he lay down on his side, facing Toby.
“So? What prompted this?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Five years and you come up here unannounced, able and willing…
What the fuck does that mean? Did you wake up one morning, thought you’d
get yourself suitably laid and flew here?”
Chris’ fingers were tracing the curve of Toby’s shoulders, sliding
along the bruises and he leaned forward to kiss them.
“Did you like it? Was it worth a first
class ticket to get here?”
“It’s not about money.”
“I bet it’s not. So why don’t you tell me?”
Toby sighed, lay back, looked at the golden rays crawling on the floor and up the bed, reaching the nape of Keller’s neck.
“Gen and I divorced. She moved to Florida where she used to live before meeting me. Got her friends there, her family. It was a very amicable divorce. She didn’t love me anymore, I’m not sure I ever loved her. She has someone else and he’s going to take her to Australia… I felt like I needed… I don’t know…”
“A break? Come see big bad Keller so
he helps you make up your mind?”
“Maybe.”
Keller’s fingers grazed down his arms, catching his wrist, lifting his hand to his mouth, kissing his palm, biting softly.
“I’m afraid I’m not quite…”
“Don’t worry, you are. Just lie down and close your eyes; I’ll
take care of the rest.”
And he did, God how well he did, mouth, teeth and tongue working on Toby’s body, hungry kisses, soft bites, hot licks, lips closing around his cock, making Toby come hard and fast, blinding him to the light; then fucking him, all soft and careful not to hurt until Toby arched his whole body like a possessed man and begged until he had no voice left.
“You’re pretty addictive, Toby, you know that?”
They fell asleep again in the growing light.
***********************
L
ater Keller was wiping his paint stained fingers against his jeans and asked,
“So why here? Why me?”
It was around noon; Keller was preparing a mixed salad –tomatoes, salad, eggs and many things Beecher didn’t really identify –he took a bit of something unknown from the porcelain bowl –delicious.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? What if I didn’t want you to stay? What if
I wanted you to leave?”
“I just thought you wouldn’t turn down a free fuck. Anyway, I’ll
go if you want me to.”
“You never really care about the impact
your decisions will have on other people’s lives, do you? I mean, you
felt like coming here so you just fucking did.”
“Considering who’s speaking I can’t say I really feel guilty
about my decision.”
“OK. This is the last time I’m asking and you’re gonna answer,
OK? Why – did – you – come – here?”
“I don’t have many friends…”
“I’m not one of your fucking friends.”
“No. But… It’s not easy. When I’m with you…”
Beecher didn’t know how to say it; he didn’t even know how to *think* it, the truth was hidden under so many layers of denial, anger and fear. And he was 40; too old to say the words he wanted to. But Keller guessed; averting his gaze, he said.
“Ok, don’t tell me. Eat.”
“But you wanted to know…”
“I changed my mind. I changed my mind; I don’t want to hear anything
more, OK? You fucking want to stay? You can stay. Now shut the fuck up”
Beecher looked at him, frowning, trying to read something behind the cold look.
“Does it bother you?”
“Of course it does; what do you think? I’ve been living alone for
20 years and now…” He shrugged. “When I’ve had enough,
you’ll be the first one to know.”
“Fine.”
They didn’t talk much after that.
Keller spent three hours painting, then took his sweet time putting everything away, washing and drying the brushes, before walking out of the bright room where he liked to work , showered, changed clothes. When he finally entered the living room Toby was sitting in front of the fire, his cell phone in hand.
“I don’t know, Dad, I feel like I need some time away; some time to make up my mind about what I really want and…”
Yeah, Keller could easily guess how happy Beecher Sr felt about this; his son spending valuable time away from his family with a killer. The man who’d fucked up his life…
“What about your kids, Beecher?” he asked when Beecher hung up with an exasperated sigh.
“I don’t know; look, I can’t solve everything at once, it’s…”
Keller raised a hand –shut up.
“I’m OK with having you here but don’t even begin to imagine I’ll agree to anything that looks like a kid in my house. This is where I draw the line.”
Beecher snorted. “I wouldn’t let
my kids around you, anyway.”
“Of course.” Keller was feeling tired suddenly “What was I
thinking?”
Anger again. This wasn’t going to work.
“If you stay, no matter how long, we’d better lay down some rules.
Like… You stop boring me with the past; you’re here so I take it
I’m forgiven, or whatever you want to call it. I won’t let you use
me as a punching ball. What happened that day in the bar… Happened. I
don’t think about it anymore. I do want you, Beecher but I don’t
want you *and* the whole shitload of guilt you’re carrying around. I’m
alive, you’re alive, I’m happy we are. Got it?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Ok, now find yourself a new job –I’m sure they love American
lawyers here; no way I’m going to have you under my feet constantly. I
guess it wouldn’t last for long, anyway.”
“I already have a job in Nice; an international practice; I’m supposed
to meet them next week.”
Manipulative bastard. He’d planned everything. Well, better that than nothing, at least he’d given the whole thing some real thought.
“Good. Then what the fuck are you still doing here? You’re gonna go down to the village and buy some groceries. I’ll make you a list of things we’ll need and take your sweet time about it, get to know the people, buy whatever you want. Just don’t hurry back, I have a painting to finish.”
His voice was hard but his eyes were smiling; Beecher smiled back.
*******************
The girl at the shop had a nice accent, sounding like sun and happiness. She spoke English quite well, told Beecher she’d spent some time in London after graduating.
“I’m glad Mr Keller finally has
some company. He’s been very lonely all this time. Very depressed.”
“How do you know?”
“I used to deliver the food up there once a week…. spent an hour
or two with him; we chatted, he showed me his paintings. When I was a kid he
would come to school every week and teach us painting and drawing; still does,
from what I heard. He was great. Not very patient but we loved to listen to
him. He was so… charismatic. Passionate.”
Beecher tried to picture the scene and smiled.
“So knowing he’s not alone anymore is great. Really. Will you stay?”
Beecher smiled.
“I think I will.”
She smiled right back and he left.
Yeah, he thought, looking back in the sun at the silver sea, the deep blue sky, surrounded with the scents of citrus and lavender, walking back to the house where Keller was waiting; yeah, I’ll stay.
Keller gave him was exactly what he needed. Amazing sex. A feeling of safety. Peace of mind. Wasn’t that ironic? No one had been able to do it before, not his parents, not Gen, not the kids. Only Keller who’d almost ruined his life could make him happy. That day in the bar an unbreakable bond –and Beecher was still wondering if Keller had let him live because he’d felt that bond? Or was this thing between them the consequence of Keller’s action that day?
He’d never know and in some way it didn’t really matter.
What did matter was Keller waiting for him on the terrace, looking at the bags in Beecher’s hands, smiling; stubbly, a little scruffy.
“I take it you’re staying for a while,” he said and looked up to Beecher “Let’s go in and celebrate.”
And while they were unpacking the bags he added, “Toby… I think it’s about time you called me Chris.”
Fini!!