Date: Sun, 29 Jul 2007 00:30:57 +0200 From: Julian Obedient Subject: More Than Enough Jonathan stood by the French windows that gave onto the garden. Beyond the garden was the driveway and then there was the gate to the estate. He was dripping. Outside, sheets of rain slapped every surface they touched, beating foliage and drainage gutters equally. He watched as the black Mercedes swung around the circle, passed between the brick columns, and disappeared through the open iron gates into a dark, invisible distance. Let it go, Peter said, pulling off his t shirt, also wet, which was sticking to his well-made torso. What do you know about it? Jonathan said, tossing his wet hair, looking almost black now and slick. You ought to know better than to ask me that, he said, rubbing a towel he had nearby over Jonathan's curly hair and silky smooth, muscled back. You really have been working on yourself, he said admiringly. Don't you think you're alright just as you are? He added with a wink and a caress. It's so fucking stupid, Jonathan cried, hitting the side of his head with the side of his fist. Come on, Peter said, taking hold of Jonathan's head as gently and as firmly as he could. Enough. Jonathan let his friend hold him. I'm sorry, he said. What are you sorry for? Peter said. For being such a fucking idiot. For letting this stuff bother me. But I can't help it. It really gets under my skin. I know, Peter said. I'm sorry, Jonathan said again. There's nothing to be sorry for. It's a lot. They really don't care about me. Peter shook his head almost as if to say, apologetically, that's life. But when he did speak, he said, I care about you. I know, Jonathan said. And I care about you, even if I show it in real backass ways. They sat down beside each other at the library table and began their homework, Peter his trigonometry; Jonathan, his Latin. The housekeeper looked in with a concerned and sad aspect and asked if they wanted anything. It's ok, Sebastian, Jonathan said. I'm ok. You know, she began, but she stopped, leaving what she wanted to say to resonate in the silence. I know, Jonathan said. Intent, for more than half an hour they sat absorbed in their work. Outside the garden was golden from the broken light of the falling sun. Their thighs pressed against each other, their hips, too, although they hardly felt it until, as if with one mind, they both looked up from their books and felt how each was pressed to the other's flesh and they turned and looked at each other and smiled and brought their lips together in a kiss that neither of them could separate himself from. They moved away from the table, still kissing, and stumbled up the steps of the enclosed stairway that led from the library to the second floor, not the grand staircase in the front of the house. Peter pressed Jonathan to the wall and covered him with his body and kissed his lips. It won't be long, he said. They gazed rapturously into each other's eyes and mingled breaths in kisses that turned them inside out. I don't know why my father hates me, Jonathan said, gazing at Peter after a long kiss. I wish I could make it not bother you, Peter said. It's about him. It's not about you. How they got free began as a game. They were frisking in the court yard lost in their own excitement. They were the only world there was. Finally, out of breath, one of them cried, Enough, enough of this. They began giggling and crying, Enough of this. It was not long before Mrs. Delembert and Mr. Phillips were upon them with admonitions, demerits and a summons to the faculty council meeting, which meant corporal punishment for sure. Chastened they walked back to their dormitory as Mrs. Delembert and Mr. Phillips, having left them, walked away from them in the direction opposite to theirs. But once in their room Jonathan said, Enough of this. They looked at each other and understood. The bus station was scary at night. They had each other and stuck together. Their very closeness earned them ambiguous, ambivalent glances, disconcerting stares. We did it, Jonathan said, laughing. Now what? Now sleep. It's a long ride and a long night. Jonathan leaned against Peter and looked out the window at the racing darkness sliding across panoramic windows. It isn't your money, Jonathan said into the telephone, through his teeth. Tatu left it to me. And what fucking right do you have to have me followed by a private investigator? Every right. I'm still your father. And you're still a little shit who wants everybody to take care of him. You got a big entitlement problem. I worked for my money. You think all you have to do is blow me to get it. I really can't take this, Jonathan said. I don't even know why I'm still on the phone. Because you don't have the balls to hang up. But I do, Jonathan said. And he hung up. He looked at Peter, who made a fist and gave little approving jabs to the air. We won't be tailed anymore. Are you ok? I'm fine, Jonathan said, shaking from head to toe. Peter approached him and as he moved to take him in his arms, May I, he said. Yes, Jonathan said. Yes. And he fell into his friend's arms and surrendered to his comforting strength. Peter touched his lips to Jonathan's neck, slid them up the side to his ear under the lobe. You know, don't you, he whispered. Yes, Jonathan said, his words propelled by a smile. Peter met Jonathan's lips with his own and kissed him slowly. He stretched his hand under Jonathan's t-shirt and softly held his breast in his strong hand and ran his tongue over the dome of the cave of Jonathan's mouth as Jonathan caressed that tongue with his, and he felt himself melting into a rhapsody of devotion. Through the open window, without warning, they heard the sound of someone's radio beginning to play Schubert's Trio, opus ninety-nine, and their joy quickened. I love you, Jonathan said. I know, Peter said reassuringly. It was raining. Peter was soaked. But his spirits were good. He dashed up the steps to the front door of the brownstone and let himself in. Jonathan was sprawled out on the couch in their two room, working on the score. I got the name Peter said, still not having caught his breath. It's Not Funny. It's Not Funny, A Comedy: Or Is It? Covering our asses if no one laughs. But audiences did laugh at the grim misadventures of the unfortunate leads and at their nervous approach to become lovers. The show was a great big hit. Your Lousy Childhood finally paid off, Peter said pulling his tie lose, tossing it onto a chair, and unbuttoning Jonathan's shirt. [when you write, please insert story name in subject slot. Thanks.]