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Moment 3

We hit the liquor harder than we thought. I'm sloppy and soft, melting all over him, in rapid decay like an ice sculpture outside on a hot day. I'm drenching him in me, of course I am, why wouldn't I be?

In this instant he is my home and my rock. He is transformative and healing, comfort and caring. He is the morning shower that cleanses me of daily grime and all the wounds and war stories that only build up over time. We get only more broken and bruised, not better. More weathered with every day that brings weather. As to whether or not it can get any better I don't know, all I know is I've never seen it happen.

We exist inside mirage, I'm convinced, this harsh and endless abyss can't be all there is, but the illusion only provokes more questions and confusion. I can't keep track of the truth, all I know is that we're touching, Cecil and I. We thread fingers through feathers, tracing the path of time's wounds across our delicate down. Such wounds never heal, only fade. His fingers find my most recent scar, it's in the shape of a fox's tongue. Ruben's tongue.

God. I don't want to think about Ruben. He was radicalized by the sweet allure of outrage and discontent, the siren song of lonely men who would trade the happiness of everyone for the satisfaction of them. Selfish beyond reason, blind beyond belief. I relayed the details of my encounter with the fox to Cecil. He wasn't surprised. If meeting Ruben amounted to anything it was hammering the final nail in his coffin. Cecil and I are done with him, over, through. He's deleted, blocked, exiled from our lives. It might've been funny if he wasn't once one of my closest friends.

It hurts to know he's the same fox I once played chess with, high, talking smack and having a great time, gorging on nachos and feeling so fine it would be all but impossible to fathom such future failure, such a fall from former heights, but here we are. He has changed so much, but he's still Ruben, as much as I wish he wasn't. We have grown more than just apart, and while I can't say I feel good about that, I can admit it's the truth.

Cecil's fingers forge on and find older scars, more faint in their outlines. Past traumas painted light in transparent black and white. They're barely there now, but there they are all the same.

Oh god, but his body against mine! It's enough to melt my mind. Or is that the alcohol? We drank and we drank and we did our best to laugh off the past but soon enough his hands were on my hips and mine were cupping his butt cheeks as we clashed beaks, waging an intimate war, one that he won, easily.

We took the battle to his room to the sound of music, one of his favorite playlists. By now I could probably name every song on it in order. It's wild to think I know him better now than I ever have. I know all of his quirks and eccentricities, his preferences and perfectionist peculiarities. He has changed so much in the years I've known him but he's still Cecil. That fact warms me. He is one of the only people in the world I could honestly say that I love, platonic though it is between us. It has to be, obviously, seeing as though you're always on my mind, at the edge of thought and consciousness in the moments you aren't all I can think about.

I've been thinking I should send you a message soon, call you, come and see you, but I have to admit that plan is see through. As is any plan made drunk in another man's bed.

My clothes came off quickly, as did Cecil's, and we swayed and smooched and touched and felt scars and found history. Here we are, tangled and worn, expelling years of worries and fears in close-up breathless breaths, being left in an uncanny state of preternatural calm. It all makes sense in a way things so rarely do, to be here, now, present, with Cecil. And you.

It seems that everyone has changed except me. You perhaps most of all, not in figuring out you were a girl but in that you've grown so much. Though, admittedly, I have little to base that on: I haven't talked to you in over a year. Not for real. I imagine it though, often: your voice, our conversations. You leaning in close and whispering sweet nothings in my ear about-

The kind of things I shouldn't admit go through my head, that way leads only to the death of dreams. But, god, given chance, I should escape that mess of desire and crushing distress.

Here I am in bed with my beautiful friend. He is all I need in order to mend. Cecil is always tender in my presence, and accommodating. He asks what I want and he provides. Whether on bottom or top he pays as much or more attention to my needs than his own. He's a passionate, empathetic lover, gentle when he needs to be and rough when the time is right. And his eyes! They're gold mines. Ordinary at first glance, but delve deep and you'll find riches beyond belief. He writes a million words with his every glance and there's a song in his every sigh.

It took far too long for me to realize he is in love with me.

So long that I'm only realizing it now, lost deep in a shared stare, his eyes glowing with ecstatic joy as I hilt my cock inside of him.

In realization I pause, my beak can't help but part.

When did I become the subject of his desires? Today? A week ago? A month? That night he found me at the club? Or in years gone by?

I can't tell.

After a second he senses something is wrong. I don't want to let him catch on. I can't ruin this moment. Thankfully I don't have to, realizing what I realized hasn't made me any less hard.

I haven't exactly thought it through yet though. I don't even know how it makes me feel. I thrust and thrust and thrust again. Harder now, faster. He's loving it. He's losing his fucking mind. I'm just that good.

God, it's got my ego going, that's for sure. I'm flattered, certainly. A little nervous. A bit prideful, perhaps wrongly. Oh he's moaning now, loving the ever-living fuck out of this. I am too. I've got this mad grin and I can feel my climax coming.

I force myself to slow down, to extend the feeling.

If only it could go on forever.

I'll admit all this is a little confusing. A little tragic, too. Cecil knows I'm still not over you, that you're always on my mind. Yet he chooses to wrestle with your ghost. Then again he hasn't complained, nor has he brought his feelings about me up anywhere other than in his eyes and his moans and the way he chooses to go about acting around me, his endless patience, his dedication, god it's only in everything, but still it's all implicit, unspoken. He has kept it that way by choice. Perhaps I should too.

It's not like I know what do with the information anyway, not when I'm still in love with you. Though in truth, as stated, I love him too.

It's too much to digest. I pull out of him, flip him onto his front, and go right back in. He's in love with everything I do, every noise he makes says so too.

I would say I could get used to this, but I already am. I've been all but living with Cecil for weeks now. If I'm not at work I'm either at home eating, sleeping or with him: here, out, wherever. It's been good, great even, but I have to admit we haven't been alone. You've been here too. You're always here.

Is it bad that I've pictured you in his place before? That I imagined his ass was yours? That his feathers shone in your vibrant hues? It's bad, isn't it? I know it is.

Am I doing it now?

No.

Well, not exactly.

I'm thinking of you aren't I? Your image dominates my mind. I'm not existing in the moment quite how I should. All of this feels halfway between real and dream.

As much as I'd like to, I can't blame the alcohol for me, and this is pure me.

I was so close to cumming and yet here I am, thrusts slowing, going down. There's too much for me to take in. I'm overwhelmed and uncertain. All of this a consequence of a stray thought, of Cecil's love, of my own vices and insecurities.

God, what's happening to me? Maybe I'm the exact kind of triggered pussy Ruben thought I was, but, no, those words seem ludicrous the moment they appear in my mind. They're the vacant projections of rage-fueled boys who place more stock in misery than joy and close their minds to anything 'other' on sheer misguided principle.

Still, I'm not perfect. Far from it. I don't even know if I'm good.

I feel guilty suddenly. Guilty for figuring out how Cecil feels and reveling in the power that bestowed on me. Guilty for thinking more about you than him. Guilty for all I said to you the last time we met. Guilty that I never made things right. Guilty that I love you. Guilty that even in the midst of all this I'm still thinking more about you than him.

Let me tell you, guilt is a real boner-killer.

"I'm sorry," I say, pulling out of him, my half-hard member flopping down. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"What's wrong?" He asks, all of his frenetic energy and enjoyment gone in a flash.

I want to reply, I really do, but I have no idea what to say.

What's wrong?

What am I supposed to say?

Everything? Nothing?

Me.