Movement one:

Two sinuous forms, coming together, entwining, then pulling apart, flickering in the half-light. They were like the music itself, harmonious with moments of jarring syncopation. Feeling the percussive pulses in their blood, they responded in kind, hips gyrating, shoulders swaying, pivoting on bare feet. Their bodies spoke, one to the other, in the curve of a lip, the stretch of a thigh, the arch of a back. Performing for one another, they danced until sweat glistened on their faces. Brian raised an arm lazily and Justin moved within reach. Their bellies whispered, meaning conveyed in the sound, the feel of silk against lycra.

Movement two:

Like the sky overarching the earth, Justin looked up at the expanse that was Brian’s body. Marveling at the view: at the mole in the hollow of his throat, the scar just above his right nipple, the indentation on his left thigh. Even his imperfections lent him a kind of beauty: the beauty of a home that has been lived in, cherished, flaunted when it was new, that even now still manages to dazzle. And Brian smiled.

Movement three:

Asleep, despite his assertion that he could fuck all night. Blond head resting on a grey pillow. And Brian watched him sleep, visually tracing his features. The pale eyebrows, the slightly upturned nose, the high cheekbones, and full lips. Gently, he brushed back Justin’s bangs and placed a kiss upon his forehead. Justin shifted position but didn't wake, content to slumber beneath his scrutiny and the pale blue neon light.

Movement four:

Dadda and Sonny Boy. Holding him, feeding him had felt so incredible. Here was the one thing he had done right, no matter what else he had done that was so terribly wrong. Redemption in the body of one tiny baby. He heard Justin stirring, knew that he would be out soon, would catch him with the photo, and he’d be faced with them both: lover and child, but he didn’t care. He needed to be reminded of what was important. Sometimes he found it difficult to separate his needs from the needs of others.

Movement five:

The robe slid from his shoulders like water cascading down glass. Pooled around his waist where the belt remained tied. Indecent in his partial nudity. And there were Justin’s fingers against his naked skin. Traveling the length of his neck from collar bone to nape, combing through his hair. He lowered his face, and they kissed, and laughed, and fell into bed. Justin untied the robe and parted it to lay him bare.

Movement six:

“Guess what?”

“I’m not good at guessing games.”

“I got into Dartmouth.”

(pause.)

“Congratulations.” (pause.) “When do you leave?”

(pause.)

“Excuse me, but could we have the check?”

“Sure.”

Movement seven:

They fucked as if they hadn’t been together for months, as if they were going to be parted forever. Desperation and hunger fueled their every action. To devour, to consume. Gnawing on puffy lips, on tender nipples, swollen cocks. Thirsty, like the earth after a dry spell, Justin welcomed every drop of sweat, saliva, and cum that his lover rained upon him, blossoming with each sigh, each shout, each cry.

Movement eight:

Michael paused in the middle of his latest Fat Marley story, this one about how she came to work with her skirt on backwards and no one told her all day. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “So what happened?”

“Maybe he won’t go.” No need to say who or to where.

“He should. If that’s what he wants.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s not about me.”

“Still…”

“Finish your story.”

Movement nine:

“Not as long as I have you to protect me.”

Justin’s words haunted him. He worked free of the sheets and lay naked under the night air. He slept alone, Deb having declared that Justin should spend at least half his time in his own bed. Of course, Brian could have filled his place with someone else. His place. Fuck. The thought drove him to the kitchen. Justin’s place was with him. Christ. He poured a healthy dose of Jim Beam into a shot glass. Carried it back to the bedroom.

He fingered the leather and cowry shell band around his wrist. Cam had left him with this bracelet and a broken heart. What would Justin leave him?

Movement ten:

He returned to bed to find Justin fast asleep. They had made love slowly, savoring each moment, each movement of skin against skin. Standing next to the bed, he watched Justin extend his hand towards the spot where he usually lay. Lifting the edge of the sheet, he slipped beneath so that Justin’s arm lay across his hip. Then, reaching over Justin’s body, he turned the clock around with one hand and pulled out the knob that set the time. The hands stopped revolving around the face. Time had no meaning, no hold over them. Satisfied, he drew Justin to him and settled down to rest.

Explanation of the title:
Idioteque: A song by Radiohead
Variation: A form founded on repetition in which a discrete theme is repeated several or many times with various modifications.

Heels Over Head | Stories