Through the Cracks
by northern
For Ceci in Don We Now Our Gay Apparel 2004
The bed is big, wide enough for the crocheted comforter Karen made long ago for him and his future wife. He's not married now, and probably never will be, but it’s the same kind of feeling, he imagines. He sleeps with Chris every night, or as close as they can arrange it. They wake up together in the mornings. Chris always smiles at him – a smirky little pull at the side of his mouth, but the happy one, the one that JC loves – and that’s how JC can tell it’s not real.
The dreams are just that – dreams.
They usually fall asleep with Chris turned away and JC leaning his forehead against the back of his neck. JC’s knees are snug against the backs of Chris’s thighs. It’s a good way to fall asleep, calming.
It doesn't stay that way for long.
The dreams don't always come, but when they do, it always starts with a sense of something horrible lurking in the shadows, or inside of him, something that makes his body buzz with dirty energy, an awful low drone of impulse that has nowhere to go. Then there's the feeling of the dark, that the air in the bedroom and the lack of light have become solid, that they're pressing in on him, pushing his head into the mattress, his hips, his legs; the bones in his body are no longer parts of him he just doesn't notice, but uncomfortable and extra-heavy.
Around this point he sometimes tries to move, to relieve the tension, and sometimes he succeeds, sometimes he can see the outlines of the window and the door again and breathe easily, falling asleep without dreams. More often, he's trapped, breathing heavy darkness into his lungs. He's caught in the current, and the burning begins.
It's like turning a mirror away, away, until there’s only a narrow sliver of glass left, and in that sliver he can see strange things, horrible things he doesn’t want to see. Chris is sleeping next to him, but the feel of his skin isn't comforting anymore. It draws him in, making him need to touch. But if he touches, he knows what will happen – he won't be able to stop there. For long moments it's all he can do to stay still.
The heat always becomes worse. It always grows more and more intense until he just can't stand it, and thinks that maybe he'll just put his hand on Chris's side, over his ribs, just to drain off some of the horrible crackling inside. And he does, tonight as well, and Chris's skin is soft as always and something like a circuit snaps closed, letting JC bleed some of the energy off into Chris.
It’s not enough, though. It never is. There is so much inside of him, and the touch only allows a trickle to flow through. Soon the pain is worse again and JC squeezes a fistful of sheet not to do the same to Chris’s shoulder. He tries to control his breathing, but he can’t get the small hitches to go away, can’t avoid swallowing more of the dark, not when he’s burning, burning so.
Chris sleeps like the dead. JC can't imagine why. That's the only strange thing about it. JC thinks Chris should do something other in his dreams than what he does when JC's awake and watching him sleep. But he sleeps, like always.
JC rises up on his elbow, carefully, and lets his trembling hand map out Chris's side, some of his back, his shoulder, his neck. His skin glows in the darkness, so pale. It's the only thing JC can see. The connection is there, like a burning thread from his insides cutting its way through his flesh, burrowing deep into Chris like a pulse, a blood transfusion.
His hand is shaking as he puts his thumbnail against the smooth skin of Chris's shoulder. JC drags it down to the center of his back, hard and fast. The satisfaction is instant. A line of fire flares in his mind, practically jumping out onto Chris's skin where a red thin line appears. The sight of it makes him almost whimper, with both want and revulsion. He never means for it to go this far, and yet it always does.
Chris sleeps on, never moving. This is maybe the surest sign JC has that this is a dream. Chris would never take this otherwise, he would wake up and hit him, but he lies still and unmoving while JC makes more lines, more thin welts along his back and arm. The burning eases, but it's still there. This won’t be enough, and JC knows it. Still, he always makes the lines, hoping that this time it will stop there, that this time the need will quiet down and go away, satisfied, and the dream will change.
This time is no different, though. He's soon almost sobbing with the pressure of it, the overwhelming need to get underneath Chris's skin, to bury himself inside him, where he won't ever be found again. Nails are not enough, and he shifts carefully to press Chris down onto his stomach, into the mattress. He's not sure why he's still careful, because Chris won't wake up, no matter what he does. He never has.
JC fights to keep the thin wail down in his chest where it belongs, opens his mouth instead and pushes his face down into Chris's neck, where the skin is thin. He tries to keep his bites soft as long as he can, but it's not long before he finds himself cramming as much skin as he can into his mouth, sucking and chewing until Chris’s neck is raw, and he can taste blood. He cries, trying to contain the hunger and just failing, again and again as he huddles over Chris, gripping his hips with his thighs and his hair with his hand.
Chris is so still and quiet. He doesn't even move when JC, sobbing, tears the side of his throat out and forces his fingers into the wound, ripping and straining to make the wound open to him, to be able to see Chris the way he is inside. Chris’s head rests on his pillow, calmly, while JC lifts and heaves, to peer into the darkness, beyond that whitewhite skin and into Chris. It's slippery, and the room is black and red in the heavy, sluggish flow of heat, finally released.
There are no secrets inside of Chris. Only the gaping dark hollows, the yellowish bones and the wet, cooling tastes. JC is left sitting on a body, quiet as ever, and Chris's face is still turned away.
In the absence of the all-consuming burning, JC is horrified at what he's done. It doesn't matter that it's a dream, not when the bed is slick with dark, drying blood and he can't breathe because of the sounds that will escape if he does. There's a pressure building inside of him. His brain will shatter into a thousand gibbering pieces if he doesn’t wake up. He needs to wake up.
Chris is holding him, making little shushing noises as JC breathes in deeply, gratefully. This is the only good thing about the dreams; when he wakes up. The darkness isn't heavy anymore and Chris is warm arms around him, letting him shudder and hide and recover.
“Bad dream?” Chris whispers, patting little circles into his back.
“Yeah,” JC says, not surprised to hear his voice is cracked, “really bad. Why won't it just stop?”
“Shh, shh,” Chris says.
“Why can't you make the dreams stop?” This is so important, and Chris should be able to. JC knows this, with all the clarity of a sleeping mind
“You know I can't, baby, you know why.” Chris’s voice sounds sad.
And JC tilts his head up, and he can't really see Chris's face. That's alright, though. The warm arms around him are enough, because it's all he can have.
He knows, he does know.
