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I roll the condom down to his thick base and he thrusts against my jaw. I open up. He slams into my mouth, his hand grabbing my hair. I take him deeper than I ever have and roll his balls and lick the underside of him.
He bucks. “Ah—my hips.” My heart hammers. Is he in pain? “That motherfucking mouth... motherfuck...” I squeeze his balls again, and suck his head. I twirl my tongue around him. His thighs grip my body.
“Squeeze my dick. Right now, squeeze hard.” He’s panting. “Harder. Press... down under. The underside... press... aaaah... ahhhh.”
When my fingers press down underneath his cock, he moans and twists his hips. “Pull... on my balls. Harder...”
When I’m squeezing his sac so hard it has to hurt, his hand comes over mine, working from his head down to the base of him, smoothing like he’s trying to keep his load inside. He growls. “Suck... me. My cock... in your mouth. Right... now.”
I start to worry someone will come in—but I don’t have much choice. He’s got me by the hair. I feel his balls tighten, but then he stops me, urging me to rub my fingers down the underside of his cock and squeeze his balls again.
Each time he makes me do this, he seems lifted further from here. My mouth and hands make him forget the world and finally, the third time I drag my thumb along the underside of his cock, I realize: I’m prolonging this.
I do it one more time—until his monitors have started beeping and my heart is pounding hard, and then instead of stopping me, he plants his palms on each side of my head and fucks my mouth like it’s a sport.
He comes with a sharp cry, his cock twitching hard before his cum fills the condom. By the time I pull it off, his eyes are closed.
I cover him back up and rush into the bathroom to take care of myself. As soon as I see the blue tiles and the rail by the toilet, I don’t think I’ll be able to do it... but I sit inside the shower, stuff two fingers inside myself, and focus on the memory of Kellan’s hand around his cock.
“IF ALL ELSE PERISHED, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn into a mighty stranger.”
–Catherine, from Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte
I’ve taken to dramatic quotes. So sue me. When I placed an order at that 24-hour random shit delivery service, I came across an origami kit, and of course, I had to have it. I remember mentioning an origami sparrow in one of my first letters to R.
R.
Kellan.
I still can’t wrap my head around it. Kellan Walsh—Drake, it legally is—is R. And he has cancer. My sweet, dirty lover, with the .gif body and non-stop boner, has cancer. Not only that, he has relapsed AML that he was just... ignoring. What the actual fuck?
I want to ask about it. When it’s dark and quiet in the room and he’s curled on his side with IVs running to his chest, and I’m folded behind him with my cheek pressed against his back, I want to whisper, “Tell me why.” I need a reason.
He overdosed this summer, tried to take his own life before the relapse could. God knows I can’t judge. I haven’t been there. But I need to understand. I just need to hear about it from his mouth. Because I love him. I love him. And I want him to live.
Unfortunately, I haven’t asked about it. Because he isn’t talking.
I fold the slip of paper with my quote on it into a sparrow and then thread string through one of the wings. I wrap the other end of the string around a piece of that special double-sided tape stuff, which pops off when you tug it for removal.
As I stand in a desk chair to press it to the ceiling, I look over at him, lying in the bed. I can tell he’s awake because the gray box on the bed side table—the one with the red numbers showing his pulse and blood oxygen saturation—shows a pulse too high for him to be asleep.
But if I go over to him and try to talk, he won’t answer me.
It’s been that way for almost three whole days. He gets chemo ’round the clock, lots of IV fluids to flush out the chemo quickly, plus a ton of steroids, antibiotics, painkillers for the bone pain he still has, and a laundry list of random other drugs like Zofran, Ativan, etc. Yesterday and the day before, he got shots of chemo in his spine as well. Both times, I went with him to the procedure room, and both times I wrapped my arms around him as he curled over on his side.
He’ll hold my hands and lean his head against me. He might answer a question or two—as long as he’s speaking with his eyes closed—but he won’t really engage.
When we’re in his room, he’ll lie in bed and feign sleep.
I’ve gotten good at gauging his pain level—the pulse number can help me tell—so if he gets up to do something, and I can tell he’s hurting, I’ll wrap my arm around him... and he’ll lean on me.
But this is all, until night time.
Around nine or ten, I’ll play a DVD—one of the episodes of Walking Dead, from the DVDs Arethea pointed out when I first got here. I’ll slip in bed behind him, and I’ll wrap an arm around his hard, lean waist. At night, Arethea only comes in every three hours, so I have time to really touch him.
I stroke his neck and shoulders... trail around his sides, down to the firm plane of his abs... and always, there’s his dick, standing straight up. He will guide my hands to it, or sometimes urge me to come lie in front of him, where we’d be facing each other. I’ll pull his head against my chest so he can suck my nipples, and I’ll stroke his cock until he comes in my hand.
Sometimes it takes a long time, and I know it’s because of all the painkillers. But always, if I roll a condom on and suck him... play with his balls and tease the rim, or drag my fingertip over his taint, I can make him come.
