Devoid of Hesitation | [Bubby/Alistair]

[d4 Panda Scope [Gayton]]

Breathe in,
Take the time. You too often forget.

Breathe out,
One.
Two.
Three.
You condition yourself. It’s important to you—to enjoy breathing. Keep it conscious.

Breathe in,
Change:
It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait for ‘go’. It just takes off, at its own pace, sudden and fast.

Breathe out,
And you keep up with it. You don’t give yourself another choice.
It’s scary, and you’re hesitant, at first.

Breathe in,
But one day, something clicks. And you dive in, all at once—full sprint
And the change becomes you, and you don’t know who you are anymore.
But that’s okay.

Breath out,

---

A whispered breeze slowly turned to a roar pulled viciously at my hair. From their usual position, drooped down my forehead, they were jerked to life, dancing beatless above my head. I sat there, carved into the sand like a liquid, filling in the empty spaces. I was surrounded on three sides by a large purple-tinted rock that sat secluded on a lesser populated beach.

My head fell back into one of its too many nooks. I was smiling, a flash of off-white.

Saturday. It was the one day a week I didn’t work, and I didn’t have school. It was reserved. For him.

Call me a hopeless romantic, if you must, but I wasn’t meant to meet him. I was meant to walk home, late after a night of hard work. I was supposed to walk right past him and never notice him. A lock of hair, waltzing on a beach. With nothing but the beat of his own will.

It all took me by surprise, I didn’t know him, but I trusted him. I felt myself with him.

I fell in love with him.

Maybe not that first night. I can’t pinpoint a moment. But I know right now, that he was who I thought of when my eyes fluttered open that morning.

And Saturday is for us.

I got there no earlier than usual, but always earlier than him. We used to meet near the same docks I first saw him. But one day, on one of our strolls that were never long enough, we found this rock.

It wasn’t special at first. But there we stood, hidden from the world. And he told me he loved me. For the first time. And devoid of hesitation, I said it back.

But that was then. But this Saturday was different. As I said, I was always there first, but never by much.

An hour passed, the calm mist of morning faded away.

Another hour, I was antsy. No longer sitting, I paced footprints into the sand.

Another hour, I was worried. Was he okay? Did something happen? I couldn’t leave, because I wouldn’t know if he ever came. I wouldn’t know if he was okay. I’d wait the day.

Another hour. I tried to eat my lunch, but I was too anxious. Sweat dripped down my forehead. Worry wore me.

Another hour. I couldn’t wait any longer. I was sick of looking at the rock. It reminded me of myself in the moment: Alone, out of place. I had to leave, I had to find him.

So, I stormed out from its protection, with it all my guard. Red faced, I turned in the direction of the district and relief washed away every minute spent worried. He was there, walking down the sand, ready to greet me.

First, I was happy. A smile started to inch from my lips, he was alive.

Second, I was angry. He was alive. He left me alone for hours upon hours. Worried sick, nauseous.

Then, I opened my mouth, angry, but before any words could escape the hellfire I looked at him. The wind pulled back his shirt, and I could the outline of his body. I found myself frozen in lust. I wanted nothing more than to rip it off and to feel his lips. I calmed.

Finally, I breathed. I wasn’t happy with him, but I wasn’t angry with him, and I couldn’t kiss him. To kiss him, would be to make him think I was okay—I wasn’t.
So I spoke, in a somewhat strained voice, an attempt at burying my feelings in my throat. “Alistair… I just waited…” I stopped, mid-sentence. I realized he would talk if I didn’t, and I wasn’t ready to hear his words, so I took a breath and interjected through silence, “Where have you been?”

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

It was, in utmost subtlety,

a blessing and a privilege all at once to be able to see the waves lap generously at the black rocks strewn about the shore. If it were another day or a less agitating scenario, Beau would have skinned a handful of apples – nearly ripen, because the ripe ones were too saccharine for his taste – and made a windy path down to the sands and the amoebas wandering in its pockets.

Their house was seaward bound: a colorful structure that appeared idyllic from the outside in its pastel blue walls and rusted wind wave, but was a control demon’s lair within.

His mother preferred to keep objects in their rightful places: vases, always filled to their brims with cool water, atop marble tables, ceramics in a singular file, silverware sternly told not to bulge from their markers on the table. She feared change as one would a six-foot tall spider, never getting adventurous with a new brand of soap or indulging in fresh recipes.

A waft of her renowned lemon chicken kissed Beau’s nostrils, and he closed his eyes in quiet resentment, balling hands to fists. “Alistair, get away from the window.” Despite the intents of rebellion he so wholeheartedly held inside him, Beau heeded the words. This was his curse: obedience. He was caught in his parents’ reins but made no traceable efforts to escape its hold.

There were mental sketches he’d thought about – wild constructions of mind about the place where he and Bobby would reside after running away from here. A house crafted from mere timbers, nestled by a hill and, of course, seaward.

The two would spend their idle hours behind closed doors and aired windows, or near the waves, or sprawl over the shore to star-gaze, watching comets pass by. He and Bobby could smooth out the minuscule details, as they did most of the time.

But for now, Beau put a distance between him and the window, closer to his mother.

She was working, quietly; the volume was channeled into the things her hands molded: rose-shaped tomatoes and carrots guised as leafs. “I know why you’re behind me – you can leave when Ms. Pixie does.” A scowl flashed on Beau’s face. “But, I don’t even know her! She’s just a lady!”

Mother grew quiet for a mere seconds as she tasted her own creations. He could decipher what she thought from the mere expressions. This one whispered: too much salt, needs more sour.

“She has ties with the businessmen your father wants to appease, so please, Alistair, play the part.” Miriam Beau was not a lady that sugarcoated her words, just her brown pretzels.

He’d been playing the part for what seems like decades now, dancing with worn robes to an audience his parents booked.

“But—” her voice “Alistair,” became the snarl of an impending storm. “I will not repeat myself.” He drowned out his whimper in the throat before pacing away to the dining quarters, where Ms. Pixie waved eagerly at him with diamond rings and pearled teeth.

Luncheon concluded after the meals and banter concerning the prestigious topics: career affairs, language, status quo of the land, and other pretentious subjects the rich thought the most relevant. He was excused with a finger’s tap and the ghost of a placid smile near his mother’s glossed lips.

Beau waded past crowds, past the seaward winds, past his own breath, charging onward to where the sky kissed the horizon and where he kissed Bobby.

He could recall the memories, so palpable, how his mouth opened over the boy’s, how the veins crackled and the heart crooned like an infant that’d been given a handful of sweets. Alistair was the most saccharine flavor out of all that he’s ever tasted – unrivaled, not even by the skinned and ripen apples.

Sand sprayed, and tides roared. But, seeing his face and eyes, Beau understood that the storm before had not been dissuaded to leave. Bobby’s gaze was a lake to him: he could see the treasures and quarries of rock the clear waters hid beneath its ripples.

“Alistair… I just waited…” He said. “Where have you been?” Beau sucked in a breath, letting the salted air weigh him down more than the other’s words did.

“Some place that does not matter now.” And, not ever, he wanted to include but decided otherwise. “I am sorry – I am so sorry, I know I’ve done this countless times, and it’s starting to become this thing where I victimize myself and – just …” Another breath; he needed it. “I am sorry.” Sheepishly, Beau stepped closer in between his arms, closer to the chest where his heartbeat was buried, closer to where he felt the most secure and fortified.

Lips found his earlobe, and he whispered a hairsbreadth apart from it:

“Cross my heart and hope to be forgiven.”

[d4 Panda Scope [Gayton]]

Ambience is a predator and it's prey is impressionability.

The wind blew right through his hair and onward to the sea. The sea. A vast expanse that offers escape and adventure, yet simultaneously was the barrier that trapped us. I thought a lot about the water and what waited to be discovered on the other side of the horizon. The caw of the birds that flew freely passed it reminded me of my dreams; That one day I'd find a home over there and me and my family. For me and Alistair. What could I say? I'm a romantic.

Alistair. He knew this. He knew when he put his arm around me and into the small of my back that I'd tighten into his grasp. He knew that when he kissed my ear and whispered, "Cross my heart and hope to be forgiven." That I would.

"Of course I forgive you," He knew I'd say that. Predictability always suited me finely. I was alright that he always knew what to say and that I never did. Because I knew him, too.

I knew that he was hiding something about his morning like he knew I was going to pry.

I knew I had been crying and he thought I was sexy anyways.

I knew I could connect my temple to his and smile while our eyes speak for us. And I knew once I kissed him, I didn't have to be upset anymore.

So, I did.

I bunched the collar of his shirt into my hands and I kissed him. And I pulled and pulled until suddenly I dropped my hands to his waist and pushed my weight forward, knocking us both into the sand.

He looks so good with sand in his hair.

I pull away from his face, still holding him. 

"So what do you mean 'it doesn't matter now'? Wherever you were, it matters to me."

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

( ✰ )

When he said those words – “of course I forgive you,” – Beau’s heart twisted in his chest.

Bubby Caro was glass. He knew it, knew it the moment they met right here on this beach where Bubby had caught Beau dancing and never seemed to have looked away since, that Bubby Caro was delicate glass spun with utmost care, so beautiful and opalescent.

So, what a tragedy it was, that Beau had a habit of letting things break.

He never let it happen intentionally but there had always been a trail of glittering glass shards behind him like a path paved through diamonds. The expectations, the trainings on how to be a career, he broke it every day by skipping lessons and throwing his fights. The aristocracy, the opulence his family wrapped him up in like expensive silks, he broke it every night through those illicit trysts with Beau.

And the love, the burning passion Bubby had for him?

It was only a matter of time Beau broke that, too.

Yet, Alistair Beau was a glutton and had a tooth for sweet things, so when Bubby kissed him, he did not pull away and had an inkling that he never would. Their mouths, puzzle pieces, slotted together and a low sound crawled up from the back of Beau’s throat, hungry, hungry, hungry, a dog given its favorite treat, a patched man tasting water after days in a desert. Why would he pull away, or better yet, how could he pull away when Bubby’s body pressed itself so deliciously against his own, when his hands held his waist and made lovely shivers finger their way down his spine?

The moment they fell to the sands, Beau’s heart did too. “Bubby,” he rasped breathlessly and kissed him again, or rather chased after those lips.

But, Bubby’s next words broke whatever spell they were under.

Beau knew those words were coming, yet he felt himself reluctant to answer. What would he say? Bubby, my mother would resent the very idea of you and lock me in my room if she ever found us out? Extremely romantic, just the perfect love letter.

He drew away from the other to sit up and draw his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “Nowhere good,” Beau grumbled after a pregnant pause, looking out towards the sea that had every bit and splash of the freedom he lacked.

He should tell him, right?

“Bubby, my mother doesn’t know about us.”

There.

“And if she ever did, she would never let it happen.”

There.

“None of—none of this.”

There. There. There.

[d4 Panda Scope [Gayton]]

Alistair was bolder than me, no secret.
He would speak when I couldn't find words.
He would fight unwinnable wars to protect me.
He would dance to the melody of his own thoughts,
for a thousand judgmental eyes,
as if he were on a stage and they'd paid to be there.
He dared to fail gloriously.

But bold as he was, he was just as fragile as me.
If I was glass, he was a dandelion in the wind.
Waiting for me to blow.

I loved him, but there was so much I didn't know. 
I was terrified to pry.
Scared he would run to protect his heart from any blindspots.
But I had to know that I could ask,
and that he'd never leave.

I had to risk losing him, to know I could love him forever.

So I pried. And he pulled away.
He turtled himself into his knees.

This was the moment I realized I'd been blind.
My whole life, blindfolded to the world.
I never allowed myself to understand others.
For if I could admit to myself,
everyone had personal wars,
each and every one of us were fronted with emotional complexities

then everything I loved and feared were merely simple.

But it's now that the blindfold is off. 
I saw clearly, for the first time.
I could look at him and know
that I didn't have to know
to know that he was scared.

I didn't have to know.

But, he told me.

And for the first time in my life,
I knew what I wanted to say.
I didn't have to think about it, 
I just trusted him,

"So don't tell her."

I lift up onto my knees, facing him.
I take his hands into mine.

"I don't need her approval to know that I love you.
I don't need her blessing to know that you love me.
I don't need to know her to know you."

I pause for a breath, but there's no hesitation.

"Don't go back. The only power she has,
is what you give her.
But I say, the power is yours.
Run away, come with me.
I'll follow you across the ocean if that's what you need,
But your home can be with me."

I smile.

And I take a breath,

And I feel the adrenaline pushing me,
and I fuck up.

"Marry me, Ali"

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

( ✰ )

He's heard before that the sea doesn’t return the things it has taken.

That when the spindrifts and the riptides take something, they mean to keep it forever in their cold depths, preserved by salt and corals. Of course, there are a few exceptions to this – driftwood, flotsam, and debri – but most of the time, nothing ever truly comes back. Not in one piece. Not as a whole. The sea devours things and spits them out as salt-rotten husks of themselves.

Hearing Alistair’s next words, Beau fears that their love may be the sea, making them the things that can never come back.

(“Will you marry me?”)

If they move past the shallow waters and enter the deep end, the shore may be lost for eternity. There will be no lighthouse to guide Beau back home, no sand for his bare soles to dance on.

They will have to swim or drown.

His mother would never forgive him. No, his mother would ruthlessly hunt down the two of them. He knows she has that influence amongst the district’s mercenaries, those who can be bought by a few pouches of coin, and he knows she would ask them to make their lives a living hell. Try as they may at peace and bliss, their days would be spent hiding and running, always looking over their shoulders, always anticipating an ambush. Is all of that worth a marriage? Is all of that worth putting the man he loves with every scarlet vein in his heart in danger?

Perhaps they would have made a lovely pair. It’s a shame lovely things are not meant for them. Not when Beau is involved. No matter how delicate and lovely he seems, he has always been a broken creature underneath it all. He could not do this to Bubby. He would not ask him to do this for him.

(“Will you marry me?”)

No matter how much his tongue aches to say the ‘yes’, Beau doesn’t.

Instead, he whispers, “I wish I could.”

He does. He does fiercely, with all the willingness to let himself be taken and destroyed by the sea. But, that means Bubby could drown too, and he would not have that. “You have so many choices, Bubby. A nice girl who’ll make a good wife. A skillful fisherman who’ll make a good husband. Anyone who meets you will fall for you.” Like he did. And looking at him now, with what Beau knows are tear-stained eyes, he knows that love hasn’t passed.

But now, he knows it has to.

“Choose someone,” he says, tugging himself back onto his feet, “anyone you want – anyone that isn’t me. You’ll thank me for it later.” He isn’t looking at him now. He can’t. Instead, Beau looks out at the sea, giving it the only joy of his life to take as he says, “I won’t let you ruin yourself by marrying me.”

Beau takes one more look at Bubby Caro, painted in pale gold light by the setting sun, and knows that this has to be the final look. There would be no more Bubby after this. Before the sea can take and destroy Bubby Caro, he pushes him towards the seashore.

Beau turns. Beau leaves.