"When you're black and white there's no use hiding in a field of colours," his umber eyes so solemn, "Anthony T. Hincks."
But when Cillian looked at Oliver, he couldn't help but disagree, because to Cillian, Oliver was all the colours o...
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III OLIVER AWOKE THE NEXT day with a crick in his neck and a small, awkward headache that sat over his right brow as if tacked there by an even smaller nail. Before him was sprawled a flask, a half-used blister pack of ibuprofen, and a note. He grappled for the note first.
Oliver. There's coffee in the flask and a spare towel in the bathroom. I'll get you tea for next time. Water's in the fridge. Cillian.
So brusque; Oliver could feel himself smiling. His eyes were reluctant to stray from the words Next Time, fearing that they should vanish without his gaze. They remained though, as sturdy as the memory of Cillian's hand on his cheek the night before. He decided to follow the other's instruction and take a shower. It felt good to shed his clothes. The warmth and pressure of the water on his shoulder blades felt like someone pressing their chest firmly to his back, and it was not difficult to put a face to this imaginary person. Every knot in his body came unravelled at the scent of his shampoo, filling his nostrils with cedarwood and plum, suffusing the very air he breathed with perverse passions. In with Cillian, out with plum. He felt at once indulgent and decadent; Oliver started breathing through his mouth instead of his nose just to stop himself getting carried away. Every inch of him smelt like someone new, even the towel's rough texture on his skin felt like the hands of someone it was not. Stepping out of the bathroom, Oliver was unenthusiastic about redressing in his own clothes, but at least he was himself again. It was his hair that betrayed him; it clung to Cillian's fragrance the most ferociously; every time he swept it from his forehead his thoughts fogged anew and he felt lightheaded. He knew certain scents were an aphrodisiac, he knew of ambrette and saffron and sandalwood, of bergamot and cinnamon and ginger, he understood the revitalising powers of jasmine and the positive relationship between rose oil and the libido, but, he thought, perhaps the most potent aphrodisiac among all of them was the scent of someone who had become the sole object of your desires. If so, Oliver thought, best to scrub himself with rain and mud, and perhaps fig leaves while he was at it. It was a good thing it was raining outside.
*
CILLIAN RETURNED TO an empty apartment. The flowers remained in their vases and yet it felt as though his apartment had been bereaved of all its colour. "Where are you?" he whispered into its vacuous expanse. What a sad and longing question. The box of herbal teas in his hand felt deflated and useless. He wondered what he should do with himself. It was already late. Maybe he had left Oliver alone too long. He felt terrible; he'd never meant to make the boy wake all by his lonesome, he should have said so in his note. Cillian never had any qualms in the past when it came to leaving the other men or women in his or her bed without staying to see the sun rise. He'd always considered it a dimension of his compassion—the sterile, aseptic method meant there was no rot, no festering What are we? while you both lie awake staring at the ceiling together. He didn't want to be compassionate, he wanted to be selfish. He wanted for Oliver to be here when he came back.
