A STEP IN LOVE [BoyxBoy]

4.

I have my heart on fire.

The Saturday sun contributed to his headache. The rays, beautiful yet merciless, had hatched his sleepy eyes, he was back to a reality that smelt of a bitterness that the liquor has impregnated the room of. The bitterness found its way into Aidan's throat, reaching perfectly the veins to his heart, now in pain.

Mark had kissed him goodbye and threw his shirt on him, rushing to his flat. His muscles were praised by the glamorous sunlight and the shape of them left the drunken man of yesterday wondering the taste it had some hours ago. Yet, Aidan did not turn to him; he watched through the. The sky was blue and the creamy clouds heavy, so heavy indeed that his heart instantly matched the emotion they carried. He wanted to bury his face in the sheets.

Mark left. It was just a hook-up. Nothing else. As he left, Aidan sighed. 'A hook-up,' he wondered. 'Nothing else?' Surely the clouds and the sky meant nothing to the warm brown eyes of the man who had made heaven in bed but to his green eyes, a heaven into hell turned was even bitterer.

He lit up a cigarette, trying to forget the beast that kissed the lips of his body, gently then ferociously. He wanted to make some coffee but felt too exhausted to go downstairs into the kitchen. In fact, it was not the exhaustion that troubled him but the fear of meeting the one he said he loved. His trembling legs could not do it. He had to sit. After the first puff of smoke, he remembered almost the sound of Joshua's voice when he said smoking was bad. It's no good for your health, man. His voice was slightly shrill but sincerity swam its way into his tone and the delicate genuineness made him smile. He wanted to crush the cigarette. An expensive one. Cher. That's how Mark said it in French. All this was discombobulating him, blending in his mind. Ugh. Ugh. He sighed. He did not put off the cigarette. The smoke rose and filled the room. The absence of coffee worsened his condition. He had some cheap rum in his wardrobe. It was 9 a.m. 'Whatever,' he said, 'this will do.' It did –much better than he had expected. Gulping it, the bitterness and strong taste coincided with his headache and allayed the pain in his heart, for a moment only.

What had he done? He knew the measure of his crime, had fathomed already before the scars he had forged on his skin and was just to recognise the weight of the knife he used to hurt Joshua in the back. 'Josh...Jojo...Joshua,' he muttered. Le bleu du ciel l'étonna. He did not deserve such a beautiful sky, and the weather no longer matched the feelings in his dark heart.

He tried to call him. No answer. He convinced himself he was sleeping.

He showered. The water refreshed his skin but could not alleviate the pain in his heart. Rum did. As he left the apartment, he gulped once more. He was weak, he thought. Weak like the humans that interpret the dust in space as stars. Weak as those who see the of stars as promising but forget that it's million of years ago in a space where the time that the light occurs and is seen is utterly dissimilar. Weak like those who see that a watched is star is viewed by a soul mate, faraway. He thanked God it was a morning sky as he walked out. No stars; no nonsense seen.

This was all depression telling its story. Turning the gold in black and blue was its main asset. He shook his head: an apology for what he had led himself into. Yet, and reasonably, he could not forgive himself of what he has done – not with Mark –but to Jojo. He walked the streets down the lake of fresh water where students roamed around, lingering with the moving water, turned green by the leaves and algae but still fresh weirdly. A cloud of darkness surrounded him.

In the cracks of his heart, the brutal fight between the and the dark, between the pain and the self-assurance was roaring. It breathed disaster in such a small world, a small world indeed, for Veronica was sitting with some pals near the lake, under trees reading Plato. Un petit monde. It was so small, for Joshua was sitting with them. His face was hidden by some guy but when the latter moved, it revealed itself to this drunk man, a flower blossoming under the sun magnificently until, all of a sudden, the clouds, impartial but steady, concocted a rain of vodka that annihilated that blossom, turning it into a sorrow dark enough to scare the face of this man in love.