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Rodolfo was the type of man that the greats wrote poems about. His soft, scarred hands called for haikus, his glittering, toothy smile demanded an ode; each detail on his skin was placed with consideration, each mole and crevice a testament to his beauty. He lived with more dexterity than Ulysses, he mourned deeper than Annabel Lee, he was forever immortalized by Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day. He was something to be cherished by the generations to come, to be adored by the future. He was life personified. Kindness pooled in his every pour, glowing golden against his olive complexion; he was gifted with a beauty only Aphrodite could conjure, both in skin and soul, he was devastatingly beautiful.
No epic nor sonnet would ever be lengthy enough to truly articulate just how much John adored his partner. No storybook nor scattered journal could ever hold the full weight of his affections for the sacred man. He would pave even Hell if Rodolfo wished to travel there, would hold galaxies in his arms if he so wished, would bury himself in ash and flame if just to keep Rodolfo from burning. He would give his life, would throw away his morals, would throw himself at Rudy’s foot, waiting — for orders or praise, he wasn’t sure — like the obedient pup he was. Oh how he would maim, shred, claw the population to slivers if not to be granted a taste of those sun sweetened strawberry lips.
Though he couldn’t ever feel ungrateful, not when the shape of Rodolfo’s side pressed against his when they slumbered, not when he was graced with Rodolfo’s half lucid grins, so subdued you’d assume them to be secrets, just between the two of them. Rudy had revived him, had breathed air into lungs that had long since laid dormant, he had reanimated a corpse with only a brush of his electric fingertips, shocking John’s dead nerves. He gazed at John like he had hung the stars he so adored, like he had framed their night sky specifically for him. He wished it to be true, he wished he could have grasped the plasma and painted a picture for Rudy’s eyes only, giving him a gift to lock away in his heart, to pepper with sugar sweet kisses.
Tomorrow was not guaranteed, not in their profession, so they had to make the most of the now . They spent lazy days in bed, curled around each other, occupying their spare time by simply existing in their lover’s arms; they trailed around their current base with their elbows interlocked, swaying with each step; John would sketch Rodolfo’s features, from his aquiline nose and the freckles dotting it to the barely visible mole on his lip, Rudy would read to John, carding his fingers through his overgrown locks as he dozed. They lived in the afterglow, that peaceful moment before the war and the distraction and the trauma, that bliss filled ocean that they could float on without qualms.
The world seemed to slow when Rodolfo’s eyes met his, deep brown and dazzling blue colliding to form a supernova, shards of affection breaking off and hurling into space, remnants of their love being known hundreds of lightyears away from them. The chaos surrounding them became stifled when rosy tints of pink nipped at Rodolfo’s cheekbones, when he smiled, shy and small, a whisper of the real thing but enough to stun John down to his core.
Oftentimes John’s wires crossed, he would confuse his giant, bursting feelings with aggression. These were the times he cowered away from the gentle hands of his lover, fearing his fingerprints would incriminate him. When he had to clench his fist to keep it from crushing the bone in Rudy’s intoxicating curved nose, when he had to be coaxed into letting his bruising grip on Rodolfo’s ribs dissolve into something softer; that’s when he remembered he was a monster. Then, and only then, he was cruelly reminded of who he was before Rodolfo, blood caked under his fingernails, wails in his wake and shrieks in his rest, some animal who had but one fate: euthanization.
That light never shined in Rudy’s eyes. The man simply reached out slowly, careful as if John would bite him, and cradled John’s face in his hands, a precious thing. He whispered reassurances into the stuffy air, just as adoring as he’d always been. His gaze stayed soft with sympathy, not pity, the pads of his fingers lighter than the flutter of a butterfly’s wing against his pulse point, his jawline, his lips, anchoring him to the moment, the silky sheets under his deathly grip — bathed in pale moonlight. His saving grace.
The real kicker was that: Rodolfo had saved him. In a literal and metaphorical sense. Rudy had pulled him from hailstorms of bullets, from blades and grenades and his own damn charges if the day was tireless enough. Rudy had saved him from his own mind, though. He’d dragged John out of his professionally crafted personal hell, he’d taken the obsessive self criticism and turned it into positive affirmations, he changed John, fundamentally — detrimentally .
In his eyes, he owed Rodolfo himself in his entirety. He owed Rudy his limbs, organs, his very soul, owed him his personhood. If Rudy had restored these shattered fractions of himself, did they not then belong to him? Morality aside, he had no quandaries about sacrificing himself, in whole, to the deity of a man he had been allowed to love. He would be his devoted servant, never hesitating to comply with his needs, never wincing at his obligations. He would be grateful to stand at his side, sit at his feet, nuzzle his collarbones, anything Rudy would give him, he would take, guzzling the contact down like he was begging to drown in him.
“Are you still awake, corazón?” Rudy stirred.
He was bathed in warmth, the bedside lamp casting sanded shadows over his rounded cheeks. His half lidded chocolate eyes twinkled honey under the light, a winsome pout on his full lips. He was ethereal; his dark hair curled messily on his pillow like a dark halo. Who had John worshiped in his past lives to gain the favor of such an angel, of this living, breathing miracle in his arms? He would do it again, with certainty, he would follow a million different paths, different roads, just to arrive at this moment.
He grinned down at his partner, heart swelling with feeling he couldn’t begin to describe, leaving a tender kiss on his temple. He flicks the light off, sets his journal on the nightstand, and curls into Rodolfo.
“Course not.”
John MacTavish would write essays about Rodolfo Parra if he were only given the chance. He would grow roots sitting in an undeniably uncomfortable chair if only the world could experience a miniscule amount of Rudy’s sparkling starlight. History would find them eventually, entwined hands and hearts, a love story for the ages. Until then, John would rest his head on his forever’s chest, listen to the steady beat, and think about how lucky he was until sleep overtook his consciousness.
Euphoria, he thought, that was the closest he’d ever get to putting a name to this bubbling joy.