3rd test

Adam waited all week for another call, but it never came. On the up side, though, he was writing more freely than he thought possible. He seldom slept, and when he did catch a few hours he woke refreshed, his mind as cold and harshly bright as snowon a sunny day. He was happy with a new kind of happiness, one that cast no shadow. Alone in his house he sometimes wondered if he was in love with Yves. But the notion would drift away as effortlessly as it had arrived.
And in fact, he was already fucking a boy he liked a great deal both in and out of bed. He was a perfect fuck, high-spirited, enthusiastic, but with something missing – how would Yves have put it? – “comme un matin sans rosée”. A morning without dew. Yves had said that about Picasso, shrugging as he spoke, twisting up one end of his smile like a cowboy and looking over Adam, as he so often did, as though he too was an artwork, a thing he might or might not want to hang on his wall.
But the boy was cute and malleable, flattered by Adam’s attention but not besotted. He would do, for now. And now, thanks to Yves, now was all he had.
It was not until his doorbell rang, late at night, he learned how limited, even gauche, his understanding about Yves had been, - for all his intuition told him it was Yves at the door. He was so tuned to his presence his heart started pounding at the sound of the bells. He gently disentangled himself from the boy’s arms, thought briefly of throwing something over his nakedness, but instead almost ran to the door - and stood stock still in front of it.
Yves, on the other side of the door, waited patiently. The door opened slightly.
“Yves,” said Adam.
“Yes?” Yves replied, as though their roles were reversed and it was he who was answering the door. Adam could not help laughing. He pushed the door open a little further. It was enough. Yves quickly reached out, grasped Adam’s arm and pulled him outside. He flung him to one side before reaching back to grab the door and slam it shut.
“Regardez-vous!” he said, grinning. In a single stride he had Adam pinned to the wall and Adam, initially struggling with the shock of being locked – naked - outside his own house, found himself kissing him back, drinking in the smell of him, the familiar pressure of his tensely wired frame pushing against him, the darkness of him – there was no other word for it – that engulfed him and flooded him with arousal.
Yves slowly withdrew. Adam dropped his arms to his sides. He felt helpless. He blindly looked into Yves’ eyes. His lips parted. He slowly, as though with difficulty, raised his hand and touched Yves’ lips but his fingertips yielded no sensation. His entire being at that moment felt like a tremulous sliver of light in a dark, slow-moving stream. He couldn’t swim against it, couldn’t surface, couldn’t breathe.
“Regardez-vous,” Yves repeated. “Look at you. So happy to see me. ” He ran his gaze down Adam’s body, a smile slowly turning down the corners of his mouth. Adam came to his senses. He looked over at his locked door. He remembered the boy sleeping in his bed. “You’re fucking crazy,” he said. He jerked forward as though he had just heard an alarm. Suddenly feeling the cold he wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. He shook his head. “What the fuck are we going to do?”
Yves shrugged. “Perhaps – ring the bell.” He stepped to the door and pressed the chimes. And to Adam’s protests, “No, oh fuck, no,” he calmly said, “Pour quois? Your boy will surely answer.”
And sure enough, the door opened just as Adam was saying, “You can’t do this.” Yves reached out his hand to the boy and the boy took it, staring at Adam in disbelief. “Bon soir, étranger” Yves said. “We must take this poor man inside,” he nodded at Adam. “I found him dans le ruisseau de mes pensées. Please bring him inside,” and with that he walked past the boy and went inside the house.
The boy stared, more shocked at Adam’s faltering erection than anything else. “Don’t ask, “Adam said. He felt embarrassed and angry but not on account of the boy. “Don’t leave,” was all he could get out as he ran inside the house. He searched the downstairs rooms calling out for Yves. He ran upstairs and into his bedroom. Yves had opened the sliding doors and was leaning over the balcony. Adam ran to him, grabbed his shoulders, pulled him around, then rammed his body against him so hard Yves buckled backwards over the balcony ledge. Adam threw himself over his body, shouting “You win. You fucking win. I’ll fucking kill you to have you!” Yves violently snapped his legs around Adam’s, locking onto them tightly to prevent them from falling. By some miracle of passion’s intuition they balanced on the ledge, half falling, half not, - and kissed. Their kisses were the kisses of combat, their tongues like snakes rolling and coiling, their hands like talons striking for possession, their breath hissing through their teeth as they bit and sucked and drew finger nails across each other’s cheeks and throats.
“Jesus Christ,” a voice said. Adam felt hands pulling at his waist. He threw his arm back to strike the boy who misinterpreted the action and grabbed it, pulling it fiercely as though to save him. The boy was strong and determined but when he finally succeeded it was with baffled dismay he saw Adam was holding onto Yves jealously, his eyes wild, his cheeks bleeding. “I’ll get help,” the boy said, still uncertain. “I’ll get help,” he repeated. Adam swung around to face him. “Don’t be a fucking fool,” he snarled. Yves gripped Adam tightly, still seeking his own balance as well as trying to hold Adam in check. He glanced at the boy who was backing away from them.
“He is safe," he told the boy firmly. “He is safe,” he repeated, as Adam slowly lowered his head onto his shoulder. He was quivering top to toe. Yves put up his hand and caressed Adam’s hair. He smiled at the boy. But the words he spoke, by way of explanation, were addressed to Adam. “C’est la passion qui atteint son grand moment – the climax, you understand – in the danger of falling. Adam raised his head. They gazed long and hard into each other’s eyes. “Danger du fait de tomber,” Yves whispered.
“Well fuck that and fuck you Adam,” the boy said, turning away. Yves suddenly became brisk and matter of fact. He shoved Adam aside with enough force to make him stumble. “Non, non,” Yves said, following the boy into the house. Adam leaned on the balcony, trying to catch his breath. The bastard had almost winded him. He watched Yves and the boy through the glass. He could hear Yves talking. The boy shrugged, looked doubtful, but allowed Yves to guide him by the elbow out of the living room and into the kitchen. Adam couldn’t help smiling to himself. Yves would be working his charm on the boy, and was probably going to fuck him, right there in his kitchen. Adam licked his lips. How did he feel about that?
“I feel fine,” he thought. He looked more deeply into himself. He let Yves words – "the climax of the danger of falling" - drop into his interior like a stone. He felt the splash of his emotions as they flew up then rained back down into the pool of his being. He remembered watching rain falling on a still lake, how the water had been covered with myriad disappearing circles, each drop becoming part of an even greater self. “I love him,’ he thought, “but he isn’t mine.” The thought lay quietly, serenely, in his mind. He suddenly became aware that he was chilled to the bone and went inside, closing the doors behind him.
CONTINUED
And sure enough, after he’d thrown on a pair of pants and wandered into the kitchen, there they were, making out against the pantry door. Nevertheless, there still was an element of shock in the discovery, for it was Yves who had his back to the door, and it was the boy who was forwarding the action – even had Yves’ wrists pinned on other side, and his knee pushed between Yves’ legs forcing them apart while he rocked his groin into him. And Yves’ eyes were closed. He seldom, if ever, closed his eyes. Adam’s serenity of mind was shaken. Now he did feel jealous, if he could call it that. It was like seeing a massive bird, a bird of prey, being subdued by a sparrow.
And with his usual mind-reading radar alert, Yves slid his head to one side, still kissing the boy, and looked straight at Adam. His expression, if Adam was reading it right, was more of an invitation than a challenge, more tender than detached, and it threw Adam off his guard. And suddenly he knew, knew exactly what he meant to Yves, and knew exactly what was required of him.
He made a faint bow in Yves’ direction. He undid his fly. He kept his eyes on Yves as he worked himself into readiness. He stepped forward and slid his arms around the boy’s waist and began kissing the back of his neck. The boy groaned in the middle of his kissing as Adam undid his pants and dragged them down to the floor. Adam knelt before the boy's exposed buttocks and buried his face in them, gently spreading them with his hands before burying the tip of his tongue in the boy’s anus and slowly withdrawing it, dragging it up to the nerve array surrounding the coccyx. The boy’s buttock’s trembled. His anus spontaneously clamped and released on Adam’s tongue as the plunges deepened in succession. The boy could not help pushing out his buttocks in response but equally he couldn’t stop kissing Yves. His kisses had become desperate – as though he couldn’t get enough of Yves’ tongue in his mouth . He longed to be packed to the full, both in his mouth and his anus. He fought the the urge to suck Yves tongue too hard but he was longing for it burst like a fruit in his mouth.
Adam stood up.The boy tried to turn but Yves pulled him back. “Support him,” Adam said to Yves, and Yves gently pushed the boy down until his head was on his chest, forcing his buttocks to jutt out. He put his arms under the boy’s armpits and held him semi-suspended while Adam thrust his fingers inside the boy’s anus and then worked himself inside. The boy grunted and banged his head against Yves as Adam slowly gained impetus and rhythm. Adam looked into Yves’ eyes. He was sure he could see tears brimming. The breaking of his orgasm within the boy extended into his chest, where he felt something else breaking. Between them they gently raised the boy to a standing position. Adam caressed him, kissed his nape, ran his hand through his hair. And Yves did the same.
They drew apart and looked at each other and at the room as though assessing damage. The domesticity of their surroundings seemed surreal. Yves put his arms around the boy and murmured things to him in French. Adam adjusted his pants and then went to organize drinks. The boy recovered his equilibrium and cracked jokes as he put his pants back on. He felt shy but successful. Adam poured the champagne. Yves stood with his arm over the boy’s shoulder. They drank and laughed. Yves refused to speak any English and Adam and the boy enjoyed trying to guess what he was saying. Adam suggested they go and sit down but really none of them wanted to leave the kitchen. It still was delivering a surreal quality to time, light and the looks on their faces.
The boy raised his glass to make a toast.
“To Adam and Yves,” he said, smiling as he lifted his glass in each of their directions. “And their beautiful garden where I have just been - plucked!” he added. He laughed happily.
And the lovers who could never be lovers and would always be lovers looked at each other without smiling. Perhaps their new world would reveal itself again some time on the future. But for now, for now all they knew is what it means to love without needing to possess. And that the strongest fall by their wish. And later, when Yves was gone and the boy was sleeping snuggled in his arms, Adam kissed his hair and watched his tears alight on the strands like dew on grass - before melting away in the warmth of his real life.