Caught in Possession

The Invisible String

Warning: Dream flashback to aforementioned traumatic childhood events, including parental loss and branding.

Also - brief mature content.

The following days, as February turned to March and first brave crocuses of rich, regal golds and purples signalled the timely onset of Spring and symbolic beckoning of new beginnings, it was as if Mew and Gulf existed in a vacuum. Their own world, their own space, their own air. Pure and unpollutable. Even outside the miniature ecosystem of the apartment, silent awareness of an invisible string that drew them together in unnamed connection.

They had fucked again. Backstage at a Chelsea FC charity gala dinner - without even knowing who had followed whom. Gulf bent in half over a desk of kit sponsor photos awaiting his autograph, both men's tuxedo trousers unzipped down onto their thighs to allow that ravenous hunger for the other's touch to be fed there and then. Couldn't wait. Mew's decorative handkerchief pulled from his shirt pocket and stuffed into the mouth of the younger man to stifle his moans as he was taken powerfully from behind towards mutual explosive climax, name of the other dancing delicious jetés on lips.

An inconvenient clean up, before returning to their respective tables - Mew beside boardroom representatives, Gulf with the first team attendees. Eyes catching and shining across the room from time to time - the tug of that invisible string.

But soon would steal in the inevitable moment, that present morning as the younger handed the elder a freshly brewed cup of tea, clumsily rubbing at sleep-bleared eyes to welcome the new day - days that had seemed so much brighter of late, be it the peeping of shyest Spring sunshine or the helium balloon lightness of hearts in metamorphosis - that the perfect vacuum would be pierced and exposed once again to the sullying smog and grime of reality.

It came with the shrill interception of Gulf's ringtone. Kaownah - on loudspeaker - unwittingly bearing the news to shake the invisible string like the vibrations of a circus top tightrope, acrobats in mortal peril:

"The apartment is fixed up and ready for us to move back, Gulf"

Did he hear the opening hollow void within the tone of his friend's reply?

"When?"

"Tomorrow"

And by the time Gulf had showered and dressed for the morning's match day warm-up and tactical awareness session, his temporary housemate - and fellow acrobat - was nowhere to be found. Just a silent, abandoned tea mug on the kitchen worktop, a hastily scribbled note at its side:

'Can't give you a lift. Meeting came up. Will send one of the club's chauffeurs round to collect you. Mew'

Something about the words made Gulf's insides recoil in head-shaking denial. It was so matter of fact. So impersonal. It said he was nothing special, no one important to the author.

And that was only the opening act of a shit show of a day...

"I guess Khun Suppasit will be happy to have his privacy back" - an innocent, throwaway comment from Kaownah on the warm-up pitch some hours later.

"Why do you say that?", Gulf's gruffness thinly veiled.

"Well, I mean, he's a playboy isn't he? Probably cramps his style having a baby housemate to look after"

The word 'baby' only adding fuel to the fire of Gulf's scowl then, as he kicked out impudently at the turf beneath his studs and earnt an earful from Coach as he ignored the pass of the ball completely, caught in possession in consequence.

The comment lurked around the stage curtains of his mind all day - that freshly opened hollow void, perhaps - holding hands with the sudden and notable absence of Mew from his usual watch point in the stands.