Beach Boys by S, #232, phera Gir, #243, n

their post-coital recess, stretched out beside each other, shining in the lamplight from their own sweat, Merriman thought of Ronnie. A fine kid who’d come south fromNew Jersey to go to art school and to escape the brutal northeastern winters. He worked at the bar to pay rent and tuition. He was very popular, but according to a rumor which Ronnie neither confirmed nor denied, he liked women and had been hired because he would not fraternize with the customers. Merriman didn’t know about that nor did he care. He just found himself charmed by the boy: his openness, his sweet nature, his good looks. They struck up a conversation, became acquaintances. Merriman often went to the bar right after work when things were slow and he would have Ronnie all to himself, and they could talk an hour or more almost without interruption. He had wanted to see Ronnie outside the bar and asked him to dinner, but the boy had demurred.
    Then he was simply gone, without notice or explanation.
    The memories brought him regret and some sadness, and to dispel them, he sat up on his elbow and stared down at Cole, who was awake and appeared to be contemplating something himself. “So, when you’re not doing this, Cole,” he asked, “what do you do?”
    Cole smiled up at him in a most disarming way and reached out to stroke Merriman’s hirsute forearm. “Well, I’m like any kid who moves to the big city in pursuit of his dreams. I’m an artist.”
    Merriman’s breathed stopped momentarily. Cole noticed his alarm. He reached up to touch Merriman’s face, to hold it, as though to give him comfort.
    “You look sad. Didn’t I please you? You seemed to enjoy yourself. Oh, but I know what it is. You look at me and you think of your friend, don’t you? The one who disappeared. I do remind you of him, and that hurts you, doesn’t it, because you loved him? Don’t be sad. Just enjoy the moment. If you want to think I’m him, think it and enjoy. No? Well, then, I’m going to make you forget him, or at least ease your pain.”
    Cole raised up and pressed Merriman back to the bed, holding him there with one hand on his chest as he kissed Merriman’s face, running his tongue over Merriman’s eyelids, the bridge of his nose, the ridge of his chin, setting off streams of chills throughout Merriman’s whole body. Their mouths met, and it was as though something had clicked shut for Merriman at last, something which had hung open too long; it was complete. Cole had brought him the promised balm. His lips, his tongue seemed to draw from Merriman any lingering doubts, regrets, grief. Merriman opened his eyes and looked up into Cole’s face, which seemed different somehow, altered. He had the same features, the same dark eyes, red lips, arrowhead nose…but they were…illuminated, maybe, and not just by the lamp. For a moment Cole looked otherworldly, like some sunstruck seraph on a lavish church window, an angel with or without divine intention. Cole smiled.
    “You feel better now, Robert?”
    “God, you’re beautiful, Cole!” was all Merriman could say.
    Cole’s smile deepened. “So are you. And I want to be as close to you as I possibly can. Do you understand? As close as two people can be…as though we shared the very same skin.”
    Merriman didn’t quite understand Cole, but he agreed about being closer. He wanted that too, almost needed it now, as though his instincts were not his own but driven by something outside himself. A warmth, a light emanated from Cole, as though he were a human taper.
    With alarm, but with awe too and a great desire which overpowered any fear, he watched as Cole’s whole face and body became luminescent—lit not from without by the paltry offering of the lamp but from within by a force greater than mere electricity. Something told him he should scream, scream, move away, struggle, but he did not heed it. It was too beautiful seeing Cole becoming something more than a man; he was a pure sphere of light now,