In this time of the year it is hard to tell what time it is after dark. Sheridan wondered. It might have been four or five or seven. He stretched out and Casey, long asleep, was soft against him. He had never imagined Casey would be so soft. Brendan is standing in the room, right past the doorway, and Sheridan wonders, is this what woke him up? He comes around the bed, across the room. He puts his head on Bren’s chest, feels Bren’s arms about him, wraps his arms around the solidness and warmth of him. They stand like this for some time. Bren smells of the cologne he put on before they left, and his normal scents along with weed, along with Logan and liquor and smoke. They stand like that in the dark, their hands hardly moving, holding each other, until Brendan brings him to the bed where Casey is sleeping. Brendan sees a blanket piled on the floor at the foot of the bed and takes it up, covering Casey.
Sheridan goes back to where he was, lying across from Brendan on the other side of Casey, who is curled up like a baby.
“I never realized how small he was,” Sheridan says, stroking Casey’s pale hair. “He was always so strong to me. I always thought he…”
“Despised you,” Brendan murmurs, while he looks at Sheridan on the other side of Casey.
“Thought I was weak. Thought I wasn’t right,” Sheridan says. “And I wasn’t.”
“Clearly he loved you,” Brendan said.
Sheridan’s face changes. He looks a little pained. Brendan reaches across to touch him.
Casey blinks and closed his eyes again. He yawned. He turns over and put his arms around Sheridan.
“I never hated you,” he says, almost asleep. “I never hated either one of you.”
Casey spreads the cover from behind him and pushed it over Brendan. Reaching behind him he draws Brendan into the warmth. They descended into sleep.
Sheridan Klasko remembers this is the most beautiful sunlight he’s ever felt, coming through this window, that this is what living on State Parkway, waking up on a Sunday morning is supposed to be like. There is no reason they can’t get a shower with good water pressure like this, pulsing on your head as you arch your neck under the water, as you bow to receive the steady heat. As the water beats his back he remembers the passage of the bullet during his second year as a cop when, though he knew it was real, he finally knew it was real. The gun wound, the memory of it always reminds him that, though he never killed anyone as a cop, he has killed a man. He does not feel about it, not anymore, not really. But he is amazed by it, by this potential to kill, to protect what he loves, a thing he never discusses though he hears so many men who could never do it, who play with guns like toys and don’t know Sheridan did it with his hands at seventeen.
His mind doesn’t run from that. It just leaves, casually. Neck rolls, arms stretches, arching his back, he yawns. When he woke up this morning, Chay had come into the room, and when he woke up, Bren and Casey were asleep under the blanket holding each other.
“I never realized how much they look alike,” Sheridan said.
Then he said, “They don’t. Not really. But… in a way.”
Chay looked on them, considering, and then returned to more practical matters.
“I’ve been up a while,” Chay said. “I washed your understuff and put your clothes in the drier with one of those scent balls. I’ll have some breakfast ready.”
Sheridan blinked at him.
“Over here, no one’s going to get up till twelve,” Chay said. “You all have a real world to get back to.”
He added, “Brendan was never the type of person who slept past nine.”
It is only when Sheridan is almost done that Brendan comes into the shower, yawning and rubbing his eyes, his gold hair dark and bronze, plastered to his head. He still smells of last night, and Sheridan realizes, after many years, after tell tale signs, that while he was showering, Brendan has probably finally made love to Casey. He knows what Brendan is like after sex, which is sleepy, and not looking for more of it. Brendan gives him a perfunctory kiss. Sheridan gets out of his way, steps out of the shower, begins to dry himself, not sure how he feels, but knowing how he does not feel. He does not feel the way he is supposed to while he watches Brendan yawn and shower. He does not feel possessive. He does not feel angry. He does not feel defeated. Or jealous.
They don’t really talk at breakfast, but then they don’t really have much of breakfast, Neither one of them ever has. Coffee and orange juice, a muffin. Casey is up by now.
“Unless you stay till one you won’t see Ruthven or Logan or Samir,” Casey says.
“Don’t forget Jonathan,” Chay says.
“I always forget Jonathan,” Casey says, as if this is a conscious choice.
Casey lives here and has had no need of a shower. That can happen anywhere. He still smells and looks of last night, and the smell and look, Sheridan realizes, is not bad. It reminds him it really happened. None of this was a dream. He can still see Brendan, in open shirt, drinking orange juice, looking nearly as suave as usual, naked, riding Logan, sweat dripped from his forehead, down his nose, running over his body. He can still feel Casey inside of him when they make love on the bed, Casey pounding him again and again.
“It’ll be quicker if you take the subway, but it’ll be nicer if you take the Metra. On a Sunday morning like this, I would take the Metra.”
On a Sunday morning after sex and drugs when no one wants to speak much and no one knows what to say, you do want to take the Metra, Sheridan understands. As the city moves under them, them, in the semi lonely train, Sheridan half asleep, puts his head on Brendan’s chest. The neighborhoods, brick and limestone house, shops, streets shooting east and west, branching out, sloping up, trees revealing, trees hiding, undulating beneath them in changing patterns, rising and falling like Bren’s heart beneath his chest. He feels Bren’s hand stroking his head.
“You haven’t said anything,” Sheridan said. “We’ve hardly said a word.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“When I was young—”
“You are young.”
“When I was a little kid. Just at that age where you start to feel stuff, you were this big brother to me, and I looked up to you. Probably more than to Will. And then one day I came to you and Kenny’s. You didn’t know I was there. I saw the two of you. Together.”
“You mean having sex.” Bren sat up.
“Yeah?”
“And I didn’t look away. I watched. I stayed. Something changed in me that day. I began to realize what I was, and what you were. And I started to look at you differently. I started to fall in love with you.”
“Okay.”
“And last night, crazy as it seems, seeing you with Logan, seeing you with other people, seeing you that way, it made me want you again. I don’t mean that I don’t want you. I just mean…”
“We’re so used to each other.”
“Yeah,” Sheridan said, sitting up. “We are so very used to each other. We take each other for granted, climb into bed and have sex because we have to. We have become a world of two people. And last night I saw you for the first time in a long time, Bren. I know it sounds crazy, but I saw you. You haven’t been hungry with me like that in a long time. Remember that first time? You had split up with Kenny. I was half way with Logan. We got drunk. I’d wanted you to look at me like that for so long.”
“I felt so guilty,” Brendan said. “I feel like my whole life I’ve felt guilty for lust. I’ve always thought that I was the good guy. Above things. But… I’ve never been the good guy.”
“You used to look like you couldn’t wait to fuck me,” Sheridan said. “Now you look at me like you’re my husband. And I’ve been looking at you the same. And last night, watching you with Logan, being with Casey—”
Brendan looked around the train car desperately. He said, “This is everything I thought was wrong. I came into the room and I saw Casey… I saw him with you, and… I wanted you so bad. I… You’re right. I don’t know if it’s right or wrong but later, when I came to you, when we found each other and held each other…. I’m starting to figure it out now, Sher….”
But Brendan didn’t say anything for a while. They were both trying to figure it out.
“After Kenny left me, when you came to me, when I was staying in Fenn’s basement, do you remember, when I was writing the book, when we made love that first time, I mean when we really became a couple?”
“Sure I do.”
“It was the first time I saw you. Like, the first time, or the second time, that we weren’t playing these roles and I wasn’t Will’s best friend and you weren’t Will’s brother. You were this tall, narrow guy with secrets and… tea colored hair, and freckles, and I knew I’d made love to him and wanted to do it again. It was the first time I was seeing you. It’s how I felt last night. And this morning, when I came to you in the shower, when I was… In love is the wrong word. We use it too much. I was seeing you, and wanting you. I’ve wanted you so bad since I’ve got on this train, but more than anything, I want us to see each other again, to be excited again. To not be closed up.”
“Bren,” Sheridan discovered, “I don’t really want to be your husband.”
Brendan looked alarmed.
“Whaddo you want then?”
“Us,” Sheridan said. “Whatever we are right now. Us. Like we were, always coming back to each other. I don’t want a gay imitation of something I hate seeing straight people do. I want us.”
When they got to Main they walked down a block and up a block. It was mid Sunday morning. Church bells were ringing. Brendan wondered if it was Saint Nicholas, or the old AME church, and then put it out of his mind.
“It’s warm,” Sheridan said.
After the promise of winter, it was nearly fifty degrees, and only getting warmer. The day was full of sunlight. As they entered the house it smelled like breakfast and the television was on with Rob half asleep on the couch. Rafe was sitting at the table and he jumped up, but Elias wagged his finger and wiped the boy’s mouth.
Rafe leapt up onto Brendan and then to Sheridan, telling them, “Rob wanted us to see scary movies, but Elias said no. And then we did and there was this little boy, but his mother was a dog and he had a baby sitter and she jumped off a balcony because she loved him so much.”
“You let our kid see The Omen?” Brendan said.
Elias only shrugged and took Rafe’s plate to the sink.
“You don’t have to clean,” Sheridan said. “We got that.”
“But I already got it. And now that you’re here, we’re about to head home.”
“That’s crazy!” Brendan said. “Visit a little. We don’t want to toss you out.”
“But you forget,” Elias reminded, “I’ve been here since last night, and I’m ready to get back, and Rob probably wants to see some more of the city before he leaves.”
Elias shouted back, “What time is the train?”
“I don’t know,” Rob said, followed by, “4:43. Mom said it would be too late and she didn’t want me traveling in the dark, but I told her the only one before that is like 1 30.” They heard Rob’s shrug. “I dunno.”
“What are you guys cooking?” Elias wondered as he was preparing to leave, hoisting his bag over his shoulder.
“Nothing,” Sheridan said. Then he said, “For dinner?”
“Yes,” Elias said. “That is what I meant?”
“McDonalds most likely,” Brendan told him.
But Elias was looking from Brendan to Sheridan and Brendan said, “What?”
“There’s something about you two,” Elias said. “You two… I know how it is with me and Dylan and me and Lance. I…” Elias shook his head.
“How about I take Rafe with me and you can come down and have early dinner with us? How’s that sound. You know it might even be quicker if you get in that squad car and drive.”
“We couldn’t,” Brendan started, but Sheridan touched his hand. “We could.”
Brendan looked at Sheridan. He said, “We’ll be down after four.”
The two of them watched Elias leave with Rob, taking Rafe by the hand. Rafe, glad to see his parents, was equally glad of more of an adventure with Elias and Rob, and they did not close the door immediately right because it was so warm, and the grass was so green. In that dresser were the letters from Kenny Brendan had not read, and he burned to read them and when they closed the door he burned to hold Sheridan. They looked at each other and then held onto each other for a long time.
“We’re alone right now,” Brendan said. “At last.”
And because nothing was rushed, he was filled with this desire for Sheridan and yet, they stood there, simply touching hands, simply looking at each other as they had not in so long, the trace of a smile, the vein up a hand, and then Sheridan turned around and went outside and Brendan admired the curve of his ass against his jeans, the way his shirt hung from his shoulders, the jaunty way he walked, and Brendan walked over to his writing desk. When Sheridan entered the house with his cigarettes in his breast pocket and one hanging from his lips, Brendan reached out and lit it with the burning end of his Marlboro. They grinned at each other and then went to the porch, inhaling, exhaling, blowing trails of white smoke from their noses, ashing onto the porch step. Church bells began ringing again.
“Bren,” Sheridan said, “what’s the prayer for the fourth Sunday of Advent?”
Brendan said, “I don’t know.”
