Broken Surface
He skimmed the water's surface gingerly with the tips of his toes. Ripples of silver and blue echoed outward from his appendages, growing larger and wider.
A Smile came to his lips, fond and foolish; the pond was now completed.
It had been a foolish whim, but Scott had always loved exotic trappings; Koi ponds; sweat lodges; anything to make him forget that this was the suburbs, not Rome or New York or London. So, for their tenth anniversary, why not a pond he could fish off of from the back deck?
A tiny tear came to Stevie's eyes; New York felt too far away now.
It had been years since the diagnosis.
A mackerel nibbled his toe, the painful sensation sending him back to reality.
He shook away the negative thoughts that clouded his mind; Scott had been failing, slowly, since August. Now it was September, the nether-month that holds fall from summer. He would, more than likely, not live to see his forty-first birthday.
Gingerly, Stevie slipped open the kitchen's sliding door. The house was frighteningly quiet at six in the evening. All of their friends had left an hour ago; all of them, presumably, were back at the hotel, waiting for him to call and tell them that Scott....the thought was horrifying. He forced tears back. Somewhere, an air conditioner switched cycles; Stevie paid no heed as he entered Scott's room. What had been their room, until the nurses had taken over everything in his life. Thank God it was almost over, thank God they had left.
Stevie felt guilty, thinking that way.
His lover lay in bed, where he'd left him, just as he had for too many nights, painfully thin and still, under the shade of moonlight. The slow rasp of his breathing still struck Stevie down to the core of his being; death seemed to permeate the room, and all he wanted to do was flee.
"Scott?" He asked, quietly, cautiously. To his surprise, his lover shifted.
"I can't sleep," Scott confessed, with a thready, weak voice that yet still held a spark of his spirit within.
"Do you want more morphine?"
Scott snorted, and for a moment, he was immediately his old self, "I'll be sleeping for long enough in awhile." He groaned at his lover's face, "Fuck, don't cry.."
"Do you want something? Some soup?"
Scott shook his head, "No food." His eyes went to the window beyond Stevie's shoulder, "Outside."
Stevie's smile was bittersweet, "Do you want the chair?"
Scott eyed the metallic contraption that, in the past few months of his life, had become the enemy, "Fuck no."
"Want me to carry you?"
In full defiance, Scott rose from the bed, kicking away the covers and taking two triumphant steps toward the door...before nearly collapsing into the door frame.
Stevie was an expert catcher in all matters; Scott found himself cradled in his lover's stronger arms. "I'm carrying you." He replied, just as defiant.
Scott would have given him reprimand, but this was no time for the drama of old. He had things to say before he went, and he was going to let go of them, even if he had to haunt the brat after he died.
Together, the two men exited Scott's bedroom, carefully descended the stairs, and walked to the sliding door; all the way, Scott kept his eyes closed, at Stevie's insistence. He felt the texture of carpeting change to wooden boards beneath his feet, and the deck's railings pressed into his palms.
"Open up." Stevie announced, his voice rapturously loving.
Scott almost cried at the sight before him.
Below them, in place of their pool, stood a mock-pond; surrounded by bedrock and plants. Lit to advantage by the house's security lights, he could see the silvery pathways run by fish beneath the water's service.
"For me?" He asked. Stevie only nodded, a bright smile on his face.
"I thought giving you something to remember Big Bear by might..." What? Help him do the impossible? Recover? Even Stevie's eternal optimism told him that this would be impossible.
Scott winced at the memory of Big Bear; their fishing trip. It was one of Stevie's happiest memories of their relationship, but Scott could only remember his struggles with line and lure.
He suppressed his own feeling for the moment, realizing that Stevie had created the pond, most likely, just for his own benefit. He gave his lover a hug, exerting as much strength as he could. The effort left him limp in Stevie's arms.
Both of them came to the realization that the end was arriving, far more rapidly than anticipated.
"I always wanted to die standing up," Scott muttered in amusement.
Stevie's eyes were flooding already, "Shut up." He moaned.
Scott lay his head upon his lover's shoulder, "Just know...." There was an alarming silence, and the limpness of his body sent Stevie into panic.
"Know?!"
Scott's eyes opened, and, as his head lifted slightly, he captured his lover's eyes, "I'm grateful." He said, "I'll always be grateful." His head slipped back to it's place on Stevie's shoulder.
Another long silence; Stevie could now feel the threadiness of his lover's pulse, the delicate way breath slowly seemed to leave his body.
My God, he's dying I can feel him dying... Stevie's mind whirred into panic mode.
"Stevie?" Scott's voice penetrated Stevie's consciousness.
"Huh?" And the gears stopped turning.
Scott cupped Stevie's face, "Be good," He smiled. A peaceful expression covered his features.
He was gone.