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“You’re too good for this world.”
It is their third anniversary together since their relationship began—or some semblance of an anniversary, at least. Trying to discern all the little nuances of what goes on between them never served either of them very well.
Simon took them both to the art museum earlier that day—a drive down to New York City, where he saw Van Gogh’s Starry Night amidst the huddled crowd in the MoMA. Stars, Jack knows by now thanks to the efforts of Miss Payne-Gaposchkin so long ago, are transient—the painting in all its blue and gold magnificence depicts a sky full of ghosts, of last tears shed by dying masses of hydrogen and helium.
They returned to Simon’s apartment for a dinner illuminated by candlelight, for a mimicry of the pasta in glistening red sauce from the restaurants that they are always too tired to afford. Both played their roles as the doting lover and starry-eyed beloved well in that moment, and long into the night. Except, though, it was never wholly a performance and still isn’t. The fact that this host of his resembles what he looked like in those old, ragged photographs of his first life only emphasizes this.
His feelings for Simon Iván Glass, Jack realized in that moment, are not an act. They are real—were real for a long, long while. Those feelings will be real whether this ends in chaos as a star’s life does, or by the drawn-out monotone beep of a hospital bed’s heart monitor when the other is old and gray. None of it will last.
“Would you want to stay the night?” Simon asks him as they clean up. “It’s a long drive back.”
Jack looks at those warm, oxen brown eyes and welcoming smile—an invitation.
He wants to kill the lights.
He wants his feelings to dull.
He wants to end it.
“Gladly.”
They find one another in Simon’s bedroom after having shared a bottle of wine, chocolate conjitos stuffed with sweet dulce de leche—fed by hand. This is not quite routine for them, not during the periods where Jack drifts further and further away out of intent, out of fear for what he might have to lose.
He breathes underneath Simon while they make love to each other. The transparency of those gentle hands wandering over him and every inviting, teasing kiss washes over him.
Simon takes hold of his hand and drowns his face in fluttering kisses when they both reach their peak. They lie still in the afterglow—content, smiling, transient.
He reaches over to take Simon’s face into his hands. “Happy anniversary.”
“Happy anniversary, hermoso.”
This is enough, after all.
But it’s enough for him to lose someday.