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How Many Tears

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How Many Tears

I prop my head on my hand and watch you lie back, hooding your eyes as you puff on your cigarette, the epitome of cool. As ever. You never change, even if your hair is a little less fluffy than it was when--

“You’re thinking again,” you murmur, flashing me a glance with those startling eyes of yours.

“Who, me?”


“Do you blame me?”

You close your eyes and snort, softly; you don’t, I can see that. But then, I think it gave us all pause when --

Wait. Wait. I’m not making sense, am I? It happened like this.

Andi was locked away in the editing suite, hammering out this new DVD. He’d been in there for, oh, days; we were all there, supposedly to see the finished product first but guess what? It was taking him forever and boredom was setting in. There we were, kicking our heels in this little bar round the corner; Dani was teasing you, ever-so-gently, about the length of time the process was taking. Sascha was giggling - we really must break him of that habit - and me? I was just laughing at the lot of you.

Of course, it was your idea to go and kick the door in - well, not literally, but to go and demand that he finish the damn job, already. Or at least take a break to come out and play...

Between my charm, your eyes and Sascha (my God, but didn’t the girl behind the desk take a shine to him!) we got in, didn’t we? Bust into the editing suite.

Of course, once we saw what he was actually doing...

“I can’t decide,” he said calmly, “which of the early videos to put on. What do you two think?”

Well, of course Sascha and Dani would have no idea. I just blinked, wished the ground would open up - but you? You stepped in, and just flipped through the images, cool as you like. Not a flicker. I was swallowing and trying to ignore the lump in my throat. Were we ever so young?

And Ingo. Jesus. Ingo.

You made a couple of marks on Andi’s clipboard, grabbed my hand and towed me out of there without another word. He covered up for you - he always does, doesn’t he? I could hear him laughing with the other two as we ran from that damn building - and we didn’t stop until we fell right into your bed, did we?

“We’ve been doing this a long time,” you mutter, eyes still closed, and I wince when I hear the pain in your voice. Yeah, well. Lots of shit, yes? But like they say, shit happens...I just wish it didn’t happen to us quite so often. But if I don’t lighten the mood you’ll be moody for days, so I stroke your cock - still wet from our lovemaking - and say:

“What, this?”

You crack an eye, glare at me then get the joke; rolling it toward the clock on the bedside you snort. “Two hours? That’s nothing yet.”

I rest my chin on your chest and grin, still stroking you. Ah, starting to respond, eh? You always were a sucker for a handjob.

“Think you can go again, old man?”

Ah! Gotcha! The eyes spring open, glaring past the black fringe, and you almost spit the cig end out.

“Old man?”

I give you a squeeze and you roll me over, biting and licking at my neck, rubbing against me like a cat, tangling your hands in my hair -

“Let’s see who can last the longest,” you chuckle into my neck, then lock your mouth to mine and kiss me long, deep, hard. Desperate.

One day we’ll come to terms with the past. Properly, I mean; you’ll be able to deal with it without having to drown yourself in drink or drugs or sex and me?


As long as you’re there, I’ll be just fine.