Nephilim

It was 4:52 AM, and Brendon lay awake.

His mind lolled and fell in a state of being that was blurred and undefined. It was a fitful, restless sort of consciousness that left his body coated in a reeking and heavy sweat. It stuck to him closely, as if it were a layer of skin. His white sheets, though recently washed and hung to dry in the cool and fragrant scent of the air, were now rank with the clawing stench of his perspiration and essence. Brendon was still clutching himself, chest rising and falling very quickly, fingers sticky with heat and shame and come and sweat, so much sweat. There were rivers flowing on him, it seemed. Clotting, stifling rivers that drowned deeply. Quilts crumpled damply below the beating pulse between his thighs and palms, pumping heartily into empty, empty, empty.

Soon after he had shot out everything full he believed was inside of him, he was swiftly and utterly ill.

Kicking away his cotton covers in a frenzy, Brendon leapt over the high edge of his bed to his door, flinging it open and sprinting to the bathroom, thankfully, across from his room. He clutched the porcelain edge of the sink that held his heaving body from toppling over, retched dryly twice, and poured out a small measure of simple vomit. It was pure stomach fluid; he had not eaten much at all since these thoughts. He spat out the sour traces of bile that had lined his mouth, eyes tearing and falling into the most violent aching for rest.

I...he...my hand just...

Ryan.

Oh, God, but is he not a beautiful boy! Brendon remembered when they were younger, before girls at all. They were perfect before such corruption. They were brown-skinned and light-haired in their long summer masks. They swam together everyday during their many trips to Lake Mead in the summer. It had been sun and innocence until Brendon’s hair glowed crystal from the sky’s natural bleach. Ryan’s hair had been lighter too; his locks were like golden chestnuts, and they too became hot to the touch after just one hour of play.

*****

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice breathy. It wasn’t unusual for Ryan to get too competitive, always wanting to prove he was the stronger one. Ryan did look sorry, though.

Brendon hacked the words out as if they were mucus. “Whatever, Ryan.”

Ryan blinked, face clean and naïve, a novice to the concept of triumph. He felt hot with overwhelming. He pulled his t-shirt over his head, brown bangs bouncing. “Here. Hang on.”

Brendon would not lift his eyes from his intent focus on the bottom of the pool of sick pity he was wallowing in. At the sound of falling cloth and ruffling hair, he raised his sight, only to have his pupils widen and whiten. “No.”

“Really.” Ryan was hurriedly slipping out of his swim trunks.

“What the hell, Ryan!” Brendon jolted, water spraying and surging at the flutter of his flurried hands. He had never sworn so, but he could find nothing else in his mind. His face was warm. His shorts felt smaller. "People-"

“C'mon, haven't you ever wanted to go skinny dippy at least once? It's just us, look around. I’ll come in, too. I don’t want to get my clothes wet. I just want to make you feel better.” But Ryan’s eyes were stronger. They screamed for him in regret.

The clothes dripped from his limp fingertips, the silhouette of his frame filled darkly from its emergence with shadows. His back was against the fiery sun, but it was not enough to block away his pure and milky exposure. Brendon saw it. He saw it and blushed. Before he could protest, or even speak or breathe again, a blooming flower of blue burst beside him. A fine rain of droplets sprinkled his heated face when Ryan emerged and flipped his layers of tawny hair, grinning. “There,” he laughed. “Now you’re not alone.”

“Alone?” Brendon suddenly felt stranded and smothered, drowning in the cloth around him. The entirety of his face seemed to redden.

“No. Never.” He said it as if it were simple. “Not with me.” Ryan kept smiling, and with loose and untrained fingers, he slipped his hand into Brendon’s fist, wriggling the stress away, freeing the strain. It was as if a set of reigns had slackened a tight hold. The sensation was new...and startling.

Brendon drew his hand away, nervous, his other hand cradling the shaking set of digits close to his chest. A look of hurt began to cross Ryan’s features, first striking the wild gleam in his eyes and dulling them into a sullen, saddened hue. His mouth turned next, limping weakly into a small line of tightened lips. It was as if he were going to cry, but then again, Brendon recalled, he had looked like he had touched something dirty. Slowly, he lowered his hands from his heart and weaned his expression away from revulsion. Ryan’s face was still brimming with imaginary tears. Who was Brendon to make them real?

Almost hesitantly, he lifted the sticking fabric of his own shirt from his skin, future and forming muscles glistening. His body was lean and toned, already sculpting itself into something exquisite. Heaving a small grunt, Brendon hurled the squashing pile of sopping cloth away, listening until he heard the assuring plop upon the thin and sand strewn grass. He found himself easing into the cleansing motions of stripping away the restricting layers that covered him, and when he removed his own shorts, he could not help but do it with a simper. He threw the thick wad onto the ground as well, a relieved chuckle soft in his throat.

“So they can dry,” Brendon spoke confidently, eyes on the land instead of Ryan. He turned his head, though, and when he did, there was a smile. Ryan felt it stir in his cheeks, and he smiled too.

Ryan flicked a small spray of the murky lake water jokingly at Brendon’s torso. Brendon shoved a wave back towards the chestnut-haired boy, grin growing at the sight of Ryan’s young muscles quivering in response from the splash. And so a war was waged, their faces bright as they tossed and crashed tall walls of water at one another, trying to cover the other in the wet sky at their waists. They ran through their shallow, hand submerged and rising, submerged and rising. As Brendon sobered from his intoxicating rush of excitement, he felt the warm lick of sun on his back and the hot, delicate hold of his hopeless bond. It was for just a second, perhaps even less, but he felt their glow become tangible. Their friendship and trust had somehow solidified enough to be a breeze in his hair, smoothing and burning. A line of pink crossed the bridge of Brendon’s nose at the realization, pace slowing as he approached the shore, panting and flushed, Ryan beaming beside him, brighter than a star. When they keened themselves into the hold of the sand, the heat of the wind had left, and Brendon felt his smile soften a bit at its edges.

The boys were laying stomach-down in the sand, staring at one another. Their eyelids drooped sleepily with content, deepening the shades of blue in their irises. If we could shade and mix our eyes, Brendon thought, I wonder what color it would be. I bet it would be so pretty, we would both block it out. There was quiet and calm for a while, their breaths finally slowing into the sort one gets as they are about to fall asleep. Ryan spoke huskily, lips dry and chiseled.

“Brendon,” his eyes looked like they were still swimming. “You know you’re my best friend, right?”

“Yeah,” he breathed it out warmly. Of course. More than anything, it is what I believe.

His eyes closed, and he was quiet for a very long time. They both were. The sound of their breathing faded into the rustles of the tree leaves. Their eyelashes’ fluttering was the beat of the wind.

“I love you.” Ryan whispered, the noise like a feather. His eyes were still shut.

Brendon moved closer and extended an arm to touch the warm satin of Ryan’s back. “Me too,” he mouthed silently, voice lost. But Ryan’s lips upturned, a shattered breath guised in laughter falling from their slopes.

“Thank God.” He nearly choked the phrase out, nudging his whole body into Brendon’s hold, pushing himself into the unsure grasp, making him stronger. His own arms enveloped him, fingertips grazing the fair, blond hairs in the crook of his back. As they grew closer, Brendon noticed so many things. He never knew Ryan was so perfect. His skin was so much more than soft, so much more than unblemished. Even the grime of the water seemed purified within the sent of his hair, morphing into something foreign and exotic.

The emotion hit him wholly and swiftly without any mercy. It was bold and gripping and tearing; a thick meaty feeling that sheared his entire body with freezing knives. An ocean grew below his stomach with a storm so violent, Brendon shifted noticeably. How queer and cruel the grip of lust is upon a being, but upon Brendon’s quietly supple yet childish body, it was fierce sensation that left him stunned and frightened of himself. All at once, he felt the urge to grip the boy in his arms like a treasure, to turn his body upon him and press. His mouth felt empty and ravenous, fingers restrained from primal grips. He wanted to scratch and push. He wanted to hold, claw and plunge. He saw red rhythms and felt dripping moans and growls prowling in his chest. His heart quickened. He wanted to do it all now.

Suddenly, he was very afraid. He had thought all of this...and felt sick of himself for it.

With the touch of Ryan’s skin under his hand, he cleared his throat, burying any other sounds that had grown within him, and did not make another noise.

****

“How was your trip to the lake, dear?” His mother’s fine hair blended to her creamy skin like merging shades of lights. Brendon jumped at the sound of her cheery voice. His swim trunks were crisp from sunning, his hair still cold and dripping, his chest bare and darker with tan. He swallowed the dry dust in his mouth and moved his towel over his crotch.

“Good,” he mused the words as if he were reading them aloud from some faintly-printed script. “Ryan and I went swimming.”

“How fun!” She beamed. His mother was very pretty. He had never noticed that before. He looked like her, a little bit. “Brendon, your hair is sopping, but your shorts are barely wet at all.” She pouted her lips as if she were a little girl, and he almost believed it.

“I didn’t wear them.”

“Why ever not?”

“We went naked.”

His mother paused her floating hands, leaving them suspended and coated in clouds of snowy soap. They leaked dribbles of milky water, the sounds of their landing abnormally shattering. He smelled the light soap; it was her smell too. She wore since the day he was born. Maybe even longer then that. Her blank apron reflected the sunlight like a mirror, and it hurt his eyes to watch her.

“Brendon,” she drew her palms back and scrubbed them clean on her dress. “I need to tell you.” She faced him, cheeks flushed pink naturally; not with make-up. Not this time. She sighed, attempting to sound troubled. The sound was light and simple instead. “Thank goodness your father isn’t back from the grocery store yet.”

“Mom.” Brendon stared back, even more afraid than he had been of his own startling lust.

“Boys don’t do things like that at your age, especially with other boys.” She opened and folded her hands like doors. “You should never be naked with or around another boy. It’s shameful, and God hates it.”

“God hates when I swim naked with Ryan?” Brendon asked shakily, warily.

“Well, yes, but it’s not the swimming, or even that you’re with Ryan. Just that you’re with a boy without something to cover yourself. It makes him angry and sad. I don’t want to hear that you’ve done anything of that sort again.”

“Yes, mom.”

***

“Hey, Brendon, let’s swim.” Ryan reached down toward Brendon’s bathing suit ties. His hand was slapped. He withdrew it quickly, hissing sharply with the pain, skin reddening instantly.

“I don’t want to swim like that again. Never. It’s gross.” Brendon followed this with a jerked shove before stomping away. Ryan watched him, even as he staggered to keep himself standing after the brutish heave of force.

“Okay,” he said, very quietly, a little sadly.