Four Months

[Morgan LaLuna]

Four months. Four months, he knew. At first, it was like an itch. Then it became something more. There was no scratching it. When it started, he’d been convinced he’d found his place, at another’s side. There stood a friend, and nothing more. Someone he’d met purely by chance. Someone that intrigued him, made him wonder. Made him learn new things. Every noble spent was all at once meaningless and worth everything. Assurances. Just a friend. Just a friend.

The one he pulled along, the one he showed off… Eventually disappeared. And the other remained. Quiet, and gentle, and understanding. Always there with baked things, and hot tea. Kind words were like the air he breathed. And always, Morgan was reminded of that dream. In some ways, it haunted him. In others, it soothed. The thought that he could have something so beautiful was something he held on to. Not a hope for this future, but a secret he could fall back on, pretending he was at peace.

But he was not. The dreams stung, for he did not have what that world contained. His world rocked, back and forth, turbulent and painful and queasy. Like the ocean he travelled, life was wrought with uneasy movement, waves that threatened to drown him. And every time, he grasped for anything he could reach. Dark skin and spices, slow and rumbling. Black eyes and sharp teeth that tore at his senses. More, and more, and never enough. Faces come and gone that he hardly remembered looked upon him strangely, but who were they to him?

Worry from others hardly broke through. His heart shut off, and settled into a pleasant routine, reliving scenes when the mind was not paying attention. It shuddered to see him. It rattled the cage that was his ribs like a wild animal to hear that musical voice. Every smile threatened his end, and every casual touch felt like white hot searing across his skin, lingering as if longing to keep the memory of it.

Four months. Too many days, and not enough sleep to break them. He both longed for and feared closing his eyes, for he knew the dream would come. That, or a nightmare that mirrored it in a dark and mocking way. There would be no relief. There would be no calm to the ever present storm. Not without action.

Action he feared. Would it be the dream? Or the nightmare? Days, he worried. Wrung his hands. Drank to excess. And still, he could not dull it. A night of forced revelry, a harsh tongue, sharp and painful, drove him back into a dangerous garden left behind. The roses caressed, and vines wrapped, but the thorns dug. Even through the haze of alcohol, there was guilt. For what? There were no physical ties to this dream, to the one face he saw in them.

And then there was a flicker of light.

“...do you think you might want it to be real?”

"More than anything."

“...you both deserve the chance to find out if you both want more."

Advice sunk like a stone in turbulent waters, buffeted by waves of desperation. Desperation that pulled him under. And he swam. He struggled. He fought for breath. Here, There, There, There, and there. Closer, and closer. Until he was at a door. Drowning, he begged entry. Flailing, he sought the other half to his every sleeping moment. Drops of rain were unnoticed. They simply wicked away on the heat of skin rendered unfeeling.

"I'm okay..." are you, Morgan?

"Are you.. Certain? You are shaking." Always the concern. Always that gentleness. Understanding. Cookies, and comfort, and friendship. Ever warm. Ever soft. A scent that was clean, and sweet, and cloying to his heart. Even his ribs could not contain it. He’d never been more uncertain. Morgan was lost, and shaking, breathless. Thoughts jumbled, words tumbled.

"I can't sleep without seeing your face. I have these... I can't... you're…” His mouth felt dumb, his legs could no longer hold him alone. They buckled, and he fell. Shame washed over him at that moment. But if he stopped, did he really deserve to dream? To break a spell, sometimes one must make a sacrifice. His heart did its best to escape. Strained, beat against the calcified bars of its prison. "I don't want to ruin this... I'm not okay. I want a fireplace and little animals and matching pajamas and cookies until I die in our bed." He expected not laughter, but a gentle hand to pat on his shoulder. An offer for tea. That sweet, soft, gentle letdown. He did not anticipate the soft, yet almost desperate grasp of his own hands.

Searching eyes, lined with tears, words seeking confirmation. One that was given in a broken whisper. The softest words, in a language he didn’t know. And yet he understood. He felt, at the core of himself, a warmth that rivalled the stinging drops of rain he still could not feel. Lifted, he was pushed back out into the rain that dripped from the leaves of a great tree, and the softest brush of lips broke the prison in his chest. Tentative, and testing. One last drop that broke the dam, and made him overflow. One small kiss that turned into a flurry of reciprocal kisses, desperate to learn… or relearn. Again, words in that language… But now, they poured from his lips. Lips that could hardly stray from the skin that blushed a shade of lavender that tinted his entire world. If he had a favorite color before, it was forgotten in that moment. It was torn from his mind. Replaced.

Eventually, true warmth was found. Morgan was certain he’d never feel the sting of cold biting at his heart again.

Four months was a lifetime, when it was memories that spanned one. Flashes, perhaps, but there nonetheless. And all, thankfully, truth in another time. This would be different. This time, he was years early. A decade. More. He wasn’t sure. He only knew it gave him more time. For even four minutes could make all that much more of a difference.