neither fast nor feast

Gibson makes such sweet sounds when he is beneath him; his whole body quakes and bucks and quivers, the muscles in his thighs jog like a heartbeat under Hickey’s palms and Hickey thinks, I could do for him without much trouble. Gibson’s strange grace puts him in mind of cudgelling and kicking, all the different places on that great smooth-boned body where a man could lay a bruise. He does not want to see him harmed nor killed; it is only an idle thought, when the two of them are lain up close together. They are fast companions, at least in vice.

Gibson says he loves him once; he says it when Hickey’s prick is inside him, when they are both pumping away and sweating and gasping, and it comes out quite unforced. The pleasure it gives Hickey to hear it must show in his body, because he says it again – I love you, that’s good, oh– and Hickey is so jolted and stung at his own stupid joy that he buries his teeth in Gibson’s shoulder until he cries out instead. Teach this man not to shame himself with talking. No man can love another; in such close quarters it is only the honor that men say is found among thieves. Hickey has never known that to be true.

They have been sneaking off together for months now, not every chance they get but often enough to know the way of one another’s bodies. Hickey does not know this man’s manner of religion, nor his place of birth, but he knows the dark and privy places of his body like the inside of a garment. Mr. Gibson thinks he is very grand and upright and virtuous because he is a steward and he wears white gloves, but when they are alone he likes being bent over and buggered like an animal, he likes to be fucked face-to-face with his shirt tugged up to his chin and his face buried in queer shadows.

Never has he seen Gibson’s face when they are fucking; the sole lantern-light down below burns a dull orange, and it does not reach so far as the crib they’ve made for themselves among the chests and crates. The patent-glasses haven’t shone down daylight in weeks; even above, the darkness has driven men closer together, huddling in the permanent twilight like children frightened of the night. The very quality of the light will change when they come to the Passage, and that is scientific fact; the whole sky will change, and there will be no more sun-dogs nor auroras. Once they have passed through to the other side it will be all lemon-yellow joy again, and no more bloodless gray. The summer sun will serve to scour out all the long darkness of the past winter, but by the time that holy and virtuous season is upon him Hickey will be gone. Cornelius Hickey will be dead and a new man will be sherrying forth into the light, fresh as the morning.

Gibson’s skin is like French kidskin, smooth and white; when they make it to the tropical latitudes he will crisp up red and angry from head to foot. Hickey rests his cheek against Gibson’s shoulder, bordering the mountain-ridge of his spine, and listens to him panting for breath. Their parts are still fitted together, his softening prick lingering in Gibson’s arsehole like the two of them were joined into one without a seam– the first Cornelius Hickey grew up in a shipyard, and no doubt he knew a thing or two about fitting pegs to holes. They are one continuous flesh, so long as they are here together. Gibson is an extension of his own body, an additional parcel of arms and legs to supplement his own members. When Gibson achieves his spending, it urges Hickey on to his own climax, like a pair of filthy schoolboys encouraging one another in petty larcenies – their spunk is mingled together, nature with nature, and man’s nature is as good as blood for sealing a pact. Hickey has lain awake before, listening to strange men breathing fucked-out breaths – listened to them breathe their last, in point of fact – but never has he thought further in the future than the next meal with that sound ringing in his head. Gibson makes him think of the future.

“When we’ve made it to the other side,” Hickey murmurs behind William Gibson’s ear, “will you come–”

Will you come with me, he means to say. It would be a good joke if he did.

“That’s enough,” Gibson says, “no more chat.” He rolls over onto one hipbone, dislodging Hickey from inside him and shouldering him off. Hickey tugs down his shirttails, minding the freshly-minted wet patch there, and fumbles for a cigarette.