Closer

Their bodies spiraled in an angry, sorrowful, and relieved embrace. The sheets of his bed twisted around their legs, causing them to have to kick free from them to reposition themselves. Brian laid sloppy kisses on his lips, trying to quell his tears. His hands rubbed his body, skimming over the most sensitive areas with the slightest of ease. And Zacky would whimper and cry, unable to put words to the shimmering feeling in his stomach—the pure, unadulterated joy that having Brian in him caused him. The joy of having Brian around him made his body spasm and his jaw clench.

It seemed like years ago that the car accident had happened. That Brian was rushed into the ICU after hours and hours in the ER. Then, Zacky didn’t see him anymore, for a long time. The rest of them cried, having shed their shells. Then they healed. He didn’t know why they healed when he didn’t. They spoke of Brian as if he were never coming back, as if he was dead. But he wasn’t dead. He was right there, above him, nipping the skin of his neck.

Brian would hold him after the sex, his hand laced loosely with Zacky’s broader one. And they would whisper lovely things to each other. Zacky pretended that his face wasn’t disfigured—that one eye socket didn’t droop a little more than the other, that he wasn’t unable to talk properly yet, still healing from the broken jaw and re-attached tongue. Brian would kiss him gently, careful of his tongue on Zacky’s stitches, and he would pull back smiling at Zacky, as though nothing had ever happened to either of them.

Months went by, and months went by, and Brian would show up for visits. They never went out, and no one ever came over. He was always gone when Jimmy or Matt or Johnny would visit. They would tell him that they worried about his becoming a hermit.

Zacky would only smile with kiss swollen lips and tell them things were fine. He was fine, and there was nothing to worry about. He would never say anything about Brian. He’d made a promise. He would keep it, unlike the last one.

“Zack,” he’d said, finished, but still inside of him, “promise me you won’t tell them about me. Promise me. It will be a surprise”—Zack could hear the smile in Brian’s voice as he had spoken the word in a ragged whisper—“they will all be surprised and things will go back to normal, and we can get the band back together. It will be happily ever after. We could get our fairytale fucking ending, then never have to worry about anything, ever again.”

Zacky believed him because, well, fuck, he believed everything Brian had ever told him—even in the overturned, crippled car, with their boots melted to the floorboards, when Brian promised him that they would see each other again. Zacky doubted him then, but now he would never doubt him again.

It was October when Brian told Zacky to tell everyone about him, that they’d been seeing each other, and that he was going to come back. And Zacky did, to everyone. They looked at him, faces full of concern.

Tearfully, Matt took Zacky’s mutilated hand—ring and pinky fingers missing, middle and index finger healed together, thumb a stub—and licked his lips. “Zacky,” he said, his voice hushed. Zacky’s stomach bottomed out.

“Wha’?” he asked, his tongue thick and unmanageable from healing. “Wha’d wron’? He was upset. He wanted to know why they weren’t happy. Why they weren’t as overjoyed by Brian’s approaching homecoming as he was.

“Brian’s been dead, Zack. He died in the ER. Don’t you remember?” Matt attempted to blink the moisture away from his eyes. The attempt failed, and tears ran down his face. “He’s been dead for a year Zacky. You went to his viewing. You went to his funeral.”

“No! Stob fuggeen ly’ng!” Zacky wailed, pulling his hand out of Matt’s. He stood, screaming, crying ugly, fat tears, and grabbing his face. It ached under his ugly hands. He realized, now, how ugly he was. How both of his hands were missing fingers, how uneven his face felt, how his nose had healed so badly, pressed toward his face, that one of his eyes had been sewn shut. He screamed even louder, now remembering how he had used a crutch to break all the mirrors in his apartment.

He hadn’t touched his face since the bandages had come off. He hadn’t looked at his hands, or his legs, or his chest. But now he remembered everything. He remembered being hooked to an IV, wheeled to the funeral, covered in bandages and clothes. Sunglasses covered his eyes, and a wide brimmed hat covered his burnt scalp. He’d sat in the back, behind the small group gathered around the shiny, green casket. Matt had sat with him, and cried. Zacky remembered being in so much pain that he didn’t even know where he was, that he had begged the nurse for Vicodin, instead of begging God to bring Brian back.

“Zack, Zack! Calm down!” Matt hollered. Johnny and Jimmy backed up, unsure of how to handle to outburst.

“NO! HE GOWNE!” Sobs wracked Zacky’s body.

“Stop, Zack, Zack, c’mere,” Matt begged. He retrieved a pill bottle from his pocket, popping two pills into his palm. He hugged Zacky tight from behind, careful of the long line that stretched up his stomach, careful of the broken ribs. Careful, in general, of Zacky’s broken body. The doctors said that Zacky probably shouldn’t have ever lived. They said it would’ve probably been better, in all honesty, that he had died. He would never heal properly, his body was damaged beyond belief, he would never be able to talk properly, and that he would always have to take medication to regulate the donor heart in his chest.

He placed his palm over Zacky’s mouth, and pulled his head back, forcing him to dry swallow the pills. Soon, Zacky went limp in his grip. He continued to cry, too defeated to accept the truth.

////

Brian didn’t visit anymore. Zacky didn’t get out of bed anymore.

////

Zacky woke up, and Brian’s face looked into his, warm and bright and inviting. “Hey baby,” he said. “You did good.” He sat on the edge of the bed, pushing a length of hair out of Zacky’s face.

“They ly’,” Zacky said, tears welling in his eyes. “Youa deh’.”

Brian shushed him, patting his cheek. “Baby, it’s okay.” He leaned down to kiss him, but Zacky moved his face away from him. Brian pulled back, looking confused. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah’m ug’y,” Zacky said, barely audible, tears now rolling down his face. Brian looked shocked.

“Zacky, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” He stood from the bed and walked across the room. “You’re just in a cocoon. Now, walk to me.”

“Ah can’d,” Zacky said, a wail.

“Zack?” he heard Matt call from the door. He slammed his fist on the door.

Brian looked calm, smiling and holding a hand out to Zacky. “C’mon baby. Get up.”

“Ah can’d!” Zacky repeated.

“ZACK, WHAT’S GOING ON?” Matt shouted. Zacky heard Matt slamming his weight against the door.

Brian took a step backwards, still smiling, still holding his hand out, and whispered, “C’mon.”

Zacky pushed himself off the bed, and toddled to Brian, holding onto his hand. Brian smiled, and said, “Now look at yourself.”

“No, I don’t want t—” Zacky stopped, having heard himself. He chanced a look down at his hands, and found them intact, all five digits perfectly formed, as if nothing had ever happened. “Brian?”

Brian said nothing. He spun Zacky on his heels, hugging his waist. Zacky clenched his stomach, bracing himself for a vast amount of pain from the grip. Nothing ever happened. Both eyes opened, and he found his limp, disgusting body in the bed, one eye wide open, milky, and staring at the ceiling. He took in just how much he’d let himself waste away.

“It wasn’t your fault. They medicines did it to you,” Brian whispered in his ear “You shed your shell. Now, you’re perfect. You’re as you should be,” his voice was hot against Zacky’s neck. “I once ugly, too, but then I was put in the box, and I found you, and we were put back together.”

The door slammed in. It was broken off the hinges, and Matt scrambled into the room. A pill bottle fell from his grip, pills spilling across the floor, white diamonds scattering on the hardwood. He crouched at the bedside and tried to wake up the other, imperfect Zacky.

Brian kissed Zacky’s neck, and smiled against his skin. “It was heart failure, you know.”

“I know,” Zacky whispered back. He watched as Matt scrambled to try and fix the situation.

“You will be put in the box,” Brian said. “You will be put in the box, buried, and we can go home. And nothing will ever be imperfect again.”

////

At Zachary Baker’s wake, people spoke about him, about the difficulty he’d had in his last months on earth. They spoke of how he seemed less vibrant, less like he ever was when Brian had been alive.

And Zacky and Brian watched the box go in the ground behind everyone.

And no one would ever know they were there.

////

Their bodies spiraled in an aggressive, passionate embrace, their legs not getting tangled in the sheets. Brian laid sloppy kisses on his neck, and Zacky ran his hands over Brian’s skin. And they were closer, perfectly formed, and untouched, as if the train had never hit the car.

Brian held himself in check above Zacky. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

The corner of Zacky’s mouth quirked into a smile, “Don’t ever be sorry for anything.”

They rested, and Brian slept. Zacky wasn’t very sure of where they had gone. It was a beautiful place; he just didn’t know where they had gotten off to. It made him smile with childlike innocence. He couldn’t quite remember how he had looked that last miserable year. Everyday it faded a little more from his memory. Sometimes, there would be odd flashes of body parts in his minds eye, and he would stop whatever he was doing, trying to figure it out. Sometimes it happened to Brian, too. His face would go blank, almost cold even, and he would stare into nothing, and his hands would silently touch whatever body part had flashed through his mind. Then he’d shake himself back to Zacky, as though surfacing from swimming, and he would stare at him, as though his gory image was superimposed over this perfect one. Then he’d smile, and it would be as if nothing had happened again.

But, everyday, it would fade a little more, and reality, or wherever the hell they had landed, seemed more and more like a dream. And it was beautiful, and eternal, and it felt like it would never end.

////

He woke, tears streaming from his eyes. He had dreamt again, and it still hurt. And Brian sat on the foot of his bed, body ugly and disfigured a chunk of his skull missing. Brian was dead, but unlike in his nightmares, he never came back beautifully. He came back as he truly was at death, a figure destroyed by a train that couldn’t stop in time. He never spoke; he simply sat on the foot of the bed and stared at the wall, like he was waiting for something to happen. Some nights, he would turn and look at Zacky, one eye completely missing. Then he would be gone, and Zacky would start everything over again.

Brian was waiting for him, like in the dream, and though he never spoke, Zacky knew that his time was coming close. He wondered if maybe they would both be beautiful once he’d died.