Undone by Tom “The closer something comes to being perfect, the more its sense of pleasure and pain sharpens.” – Dante Alighieri, Inferno, Canto VI The bottom of every bottle has a lonely lullaby to teach, a forlorn story to tell. He knows every song by heart, every story down to its last words, singing its hymns loud and clear in notes of venom, solitude, and cataplexy. His own undoing. Carlos watches him from across the smoky room while he spins, his heart sinking. Paul takes another swig from the bottle of Jägermeister clutched in his ringed fingers and hiccups, pressing a smouldering cigarette to his lips. Every night he drinks more and more. He’s gone through at least a gallon of whiskey this week, Carlos thinks, slightly shamed. He’s tried to get Paul to stop. Reasoning, pleading, bribing, threatening; it doesn’t work. Paul is as pigheaded as they come, and his love affairs with Jack Daniel help him move his obstacles. He drinks so that he doesn’t have to fight his demons of fear. He drinks so that he doesn’t have to spar with denial or self-hate or disgust or desire. He drinks so that he can become small for awhile, unnoticed, a speck. Blending in. A chameleon. He drinks so that he doesn’t have to see Carlos, beautiful dark Carlos, the unconscious cause of all of it. And he sings that lonely song tonight, because it clears out those stumbling blocks. It undoes his bindings. Just for a little while. It’s late. Paul has no idea where he is; his belly is full of alcohol and empty of food, and he’s hungry and sick and scared. He sways and stumbles, falling to his knees on the gravel, slamming his palms into the sharp rocks. He wipes away the blood, but it stings and he tries to bite back tears. He tries to get back onto his feet, but his knees have turned to butter and he remains there for a moment, kneeling. Help me, he thinks, anyone. Praying a faithless prayer, a drunken invocation of blind acceptance. He tries to get up, but immediately flings himself to the ground again and is violently, shamefully sick in the shrubs. He’s never been this drunk before. As he finishes, he sits back on his bottom and wipes away the tears rolling down his face. Suddenly strong hands are pulling him upward, upward, onto his feet; they steady him, and a voice says, “Paul?” “Carlos,” Paul slurs, his s bleeding into an illusory h. “Let’s go, Paul. You’re drunk.” “I know.” Paul whispers shamefully. “I wish you wouldn’t do this to me.” Carlos’s voice is soft, precise. Paul sighs and leans against Carlos’s chest, holding onto him by the leather holsters over his shoulders. Carlos carefully puts his arms around Paul, feeling awkward as Paul trembles and bites back sobs with tiny, pained mews. He’s falling apart. Coming undone. “You’ll be okay. C’mon, let’s go back to the hotel. I’ll get us a cab.” Paul clutches Carlos’s hand urgently, and Carlos is shocked at the way his stomach flips over. Paul rides the whole way with his head in Carlos’s lap, and Carlos playing with Paul’s hair absently, not really noticing that he’s doing it. He only notices the silkiness of the threads under his fingers and hungers to keep touching them, sifting through them. Paul curls up a little tighter against Carlos, and he squeezes the bassist’s knee lightly. He delights in the way Carlos’s fingers tighten briefly in his hair. Carlos shudders slightly; he wasn’t expecting this. He wasn’t expecting to have feelings like this. He can’t feel things like this; it’s wrong, it’s just…wrong. He’s not sure why. But he knows it’s wrong, even though it feels right. He pays the cab driver and takes Paul by the hand, pulling him out of the cab and onto unsteady feet. He notices that the singer’s aviators have fallen off the front of his jumper and he picks them up. Paul doesn’t notice at all and is still clinging to Carlos’s hand. As Carlos stands, Paul is suddenly in his arms, huddled against him in front of the hotel. He’s cold now, and Carlos is warm. He’s wearing that coat with the furry dead thing on the ruff and Paul cuddles into it, pressing his face close to Carlos’s elegant neck. “Let’s get to the hotel, Paul,” Carlos says nervously, chills running up his spine. He tries to reason that it’s because of the cold of the night, but he knows perfectly well that it’s the heat of Paul’s breath against that tender spot on his neck. Undoing him like a black velvet bow. Paul moans roughly and leans a little heavier against Carlos. The bassist decides he’s had quite enough and takes Paul by the shoulders, propping him up as he steps away. “Let’s get to the hotel.” Paul pushes away suddenly and hurls himself to the ground, vomiting again, spewing clear alcohol churned to froth by his wrenching insides. Carlos holds him up, hides him from curious eyes, protecting this disgraceful, unsolicited scene. He retches and coughs finally, wiping his lips on the black sleeve of his jumper, leaving a filmy streak of saliva on it. Carlos helps him to his feet and leads him to the hotel, where Carlos puts Paul in his own second-floor room, thinking it’s just closer, and he doesn’t want a completely hammered Paul on the stairs any longer than he has to be. Paul would have another two sets of stairs to climb otherwise, and Carlos doesn’t want him to get hurt. It’s just closer, more convenient, he thinks. Or maybe, just maybe that isn’t what he’s thinking at all. Paul collapses on the bed before the door shuts, facedown in the freshly straightened duvet. He moans into the covers and turns his head slightly so he can breathe. He kicks off his shoes and Carlos takes them off the bed and sets them neatly on the floor by the nightstand. The singer looks almost catatonic, he’s so silent and lax lying on the bed. He sets out three aspirin and a glass of water on the bedside table for when Paul wakes up; the way he is lying, the motions of his breaths, there is no way he can’t be asleep. Carlos sits on the edge of the bed and unlaces his heavy boots, kicking them off. He looks over at Paul; his blonde hair straggles across the bright white pillowcase, but it’s clean and shiny in the quiet golden lamplight; his eyes are closed, his lips pursed slightly, his arms tucked neatly under his body. He looks beautiful. Beautiful? Carlos questions this. Since when have I thought Paul was beautiful? To this, he doesn’t have an answer. All he knows is that he’s never looked at Paul like this before. Paul, lying on his stomach and sleeping contentedly—he looks like a fucking angel. Debaucherously drunken, charmingly foul-mouthed, but ethereal. Fucking perfect. He pulls the blankets over Paul’s still form and backs off before he can get any further. He paces the room for an hour, for two hours. He’s restless, shaky, nervous, coming to terms with his demons. He’s frightened; he leans out the window and shakily smokes four cigarettes in a row. Almost undone. When he’s finally frozen, bored, and no less anxious, he closes the window and turns and watches Paul. He watches the motions of his breaths, deep and even. He looks so profoundly asleep, so comfortable. Carlos wonders—would it wake him? He lies on the bed next to Paul, in the same position. Carefully, slowly, he lifts his head and places his nose in the silky straw-coloured hairs lying across the pillow; he inhales deeply, catching the dark scent of cigarette smoke, a hint of fragrant shampoo, and a slightly tart quality, Paul’s smell. Carlos finds himself breathing in the essence, frantically, hungrily sucking at it like he would a cigarette after a long deprivation. He feels reckless, desperate, but for what, he doesn’t know. He’s undoing himself, splitting the stitches that hold him together with each desperate pull on the soft scent of Paul’s hair. He twists his fingers through the softness, letting the golden gossamer sift through his fingers like silken sand. He strokes a finger, one finger, curiously over Paul’s face. Testing himself. Paul doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, just keeps breathing, slow, deep and even, and Carlos is reassured. He’d die if Paul woke up now. Carlos again strokes Paul’s face, over his cheek, gently connecting the dots on his face with the tip of his index finger. He’s surprised at Paul’s immediate textures; he’s soft, like a girl. Silky hair, beautiful satin skin, the lines of his face delicate and flowing. Carlos touches Paul’s lower lip with his thumb. It’s warmer than the rest of him, velvety, perfectly smooth. Paul’s lips twitch slightly at the corner and Carlos jerks away, startled, but when Paul still does not move, Carlos goes back to his tentative, stolen exploration. Paul’s dark eyebrows arch elegantly over his long, dark blonde eyelashes, and Carlos traces both with his inquisitive fingers. Undoing Paul’s features by touch, exploring them one by one. And with sudden urge, with slow, uncertain motions, trembling, he leans in and kisses Paul’s lips. Soft. It’s ever so soft, but it’s enough to wake Paul. The singer doesn’t move. He pretends he’s still asleep, but as Carlos pulls away, it’s nearly impossible to drown the smile tugging at his mouth. He’s not drunk anymore; on the contrary, he has a thundering headache and a need to take a piss like nobody’s business. He’s slept all but the last of the alcohol off. He licks his lips, trying to catch a vestigial trace of Carlos. Caught by a yawn, he stretches languidly and rolls over, sitting up and hurrying to the bathroom without a glance at Carlos. Still, Carlos can’t help but wonder. Did it wake him? His heart is hammering in his chest now, and he’s as scared as he’s ever been. He’s aroused, yes. He can’t forget what it feels like to kiss Paul; he would give so much to have it again, to have more of it. Meanwhile, Paul stays in the bathroom a long time; ten minutes at least, possibly more. He’s thinking. He wonders if he just imagined Carlos kissing him, dreaming it, like he has so many times before. He puts his head in his hands and rubs his eyes, smearing away the last tiny bit of eyeliner he had been wearing. Finally he comes out of the bathroom and sees Carlos, standing at the window and watching the wine-red sunlight bleed upward into the black of night. He comes toward the window, until he’s standing close behind his friend. “Carlos,” He whispers. Carlos turns sharply, startled. There is a moment of chilled, intense silence, before Paul looks down, shied by those black- coffee irises, boring deeply into him. Carlos shuts the windows. “Hmm?” They’re standing very close together. Paul feels drunk again, although he knows he’s not. Paul doesn’t know what he’s doing; it feels right, but he’s so confused and intimidated and unsettled and hungry and undone that he can’t help himself. He presses a kiss to two outstretched fingers, then, trembling, barely touching those fingers to Carlos’s lips. Carlos wants to gape in shock at Paul, but he doesn’t. He looks right into Paul’s worried, clear, silver-blue eyes and kisses the fingers that Paul offers. It’s not enough, Carlos thinks. Paul’s heart leaps, his stomach flutters at the sensation as Carlos’s hand catches his wrist when he withdraws. Carlos places that hand on his own waist, drawing Paul closer. “You kissed me,” Paul whispers. His voice is lower and more sensuous than normal. Carlos smiles and blushes fairly. “Yes.” “I’m awake now. Kiss me again.” Carlos smiles wider and bends down, turning his head to kiss Paul again. It’s at first dry, close-mouthed, tight-lipped, but in an instant both are melting into each other, and Carlos is braver than he felt twenty minutes ago; he slicks his tongue up against Paul’s lips, and the singer welcomes it immediately, almost trembling with astonishment and a wild sense of bliss. Their tongues intertwine and press against the other’s, and Paul is lost. Lost to everything except this sweet kiss, to Carlos; he delights in the way Carlos’s teeth nibble at his lip. He pushes his hands up over Carlos’s solid, narrow chest and grips the holsters, reining him in tightly. They pull apart after a short eternity of this beautiful exploration, and Paul blushes and rakes his blonde hair over his eyes with his fingers. Carlos pushes it back out of his face, hungry to see those silvery eyes. They’re clear, perfect, like azure pearls; Carlos touches Paul’s face and leans forward, kissing Paul’s smooth forehead, the elegant eyebrow, his cheek. Paul’s hands are still locked in the holsters and he begins to pull Carlos towards the mussed bed. Finally they tumble onto it, and Carlos is upon Paul like a panther on his quarry; big, sleek, dark, overwhelming. He’s aroused, almost painfully hard, and he can feel Paul’s hardness against his own, and it might have been shameful if Paul wasn’t absolutely perfect. Carlos wants to find out if all of Paul is as perfect as it was said, if the rest of him is as beautiful as his face. And his hands are pulling at Paul’s glossy black necktie, tugging it out of its dense triangular knot, then fumbling with the buttons on his stained, sweaty, pinstriped shirt. The singer’s mouthing silent words of poetry, those smooth flushed lips caressing and curving around each letter and syllable, tasting it sensually. Carlos kisses him once more, imagining the way Paul’s lips curve and taste this kiss. Paul is encouraging him with breathless little purrs of excitement as Carlos pulls his shirt open and attacks the freshly exposed, creamy ivory skin. Now it’s Carlos’s turn to delight in the way Paul’s fingers tangle and tug in his hair when he laps curiously at a nipple, rakes his teeth over it. He does it again, emboldened by Paul’s hungry whimper. Carlos is shocked at his own reactions; he should be shoving away from Paul long before now, he should have pushed away back at the taxi when the singer lay his head in his lap, but he didn’t. He’d been setting himself up for this the whole time. He looks up at Paul, meets those dove- grey eyes. They’re full of something unreadable: a type of intoxication, that not from drink but of love. Carlos kisses him then; he can’t stop himself. He doesn’t want this to rush. He wants this to last forever, at least forever this morning. He’s stayed up all night, watching over Paul, looking out for him, but now he wants to take that a step further. His shaking hands flounder at Paul’s belt for a few moments, but Paul, shaking as much as Carlos, undoes it himself. Carlos smiles at Paul’s wantonness a moment before he realises just how wanton he himself is. His own undoing, a different sort of it. “F-fuck, Carlos.” Paul whispers as Carlos’s tongue probes his navel wetly, circling it with kisses. He arches himself into Carlos’s ministrations slightly, his eyes shut and flickering. He looks like he’s in pain, Carlos thinks, but he can’t be, because he’s urging the bassist on with one tense hand, trembling slightly. The other is twisted tightly in the blankets, clenching and unclenching the fabric. Carlos undoes Paul’s grass-stained, dirty jeans that had been clean before the show and slides them off, leaving Paul naked but for tented black boxers. These he too removes, practically licking them off. He’s seen Paul naked dozens, probably hundreds of times before, and vice versa, but he’s never seen Paul like he’s seeing him now. It’s incredible. He’s fucking perfect. More beautiful than anything Carlos has ever owned or seen. Carlos owns nothing beautiful, nothing perfect. Not until now. He whispers this. “Paul, my God…You’re fucking beautiful.” Paul laughs raggedly. Carlos smiles too and leans over Paul, who reaches up and pulls him down into a kiss. “…There’s something wrong,” Paul whispers seriously as they separate, causing Carlos’s heart to leap into a frenzy of distress. He’s shaking suddenly as though he’s come down with a bad case of stage fright, only this is ten times worse. He swallows. “What?” He dares, holding his breath, praying to nothing and no one that Paul isn’t going to say it. He comes undone again, his heart bursting in his chest. Paul looks thoughtfully at him, then his fingers reach up and start to undo the holsters over Carlos’s shoulders. “This.” Relief settles gentle wings over him, and Carlos breathes easy once again. The tie and buttons on his shirt follow the holsters, undone, undone, all undone, until Carlos too is naked and pale alongside Paul, and they’re slowly undoing each other with lips and tongues and fingertips. The singer is glowing. The sun is just peeking over the horizon outside the window, washing over the sheets, casting crimson light into the room. Carlos turns off the bedside lamp, letting that pure light stream over the both of them. Unable to hold himself back any longer, Carlos kisses Paul deeply once more, unable to resist him. He runs kisses along Paul’s jaw, nipping and licking, sucking on the singer’s earlobe. Paul moans, partly from pleasure and partly out of frustration, wanting Carlos, needing this. Needing him. Carlos reaches for a nearly empty bottle of lotion and applies a bead of it to his fingers. Paul moans when the shock of cool lotion hits his hot skin, but he can’t help but push back against it. It’s right, it’s just right, it’s perfect, and Paul shudders as Carlos’s fingers search him deeply, melting him inside. Undoing him further. Carlos’s other hand is busily slicking the lotion onto himself in preparation. “Just relax,” Carlos whispers. “All you have to do is relax.” He kisses the corner of Paul’s mouth gently as he lifts Paul’s knees over his elbows. Carefully, slowly, he guides himself in, astonished at Paul’s incredible tightness and silken heat. Paul makes a broken, hungry sound, his legs locking around Carlos tightly. It hurts. Paul doesn’t know if he can take it. Carlos holds Paul’s glowing blue eyes, that fluid gaze. It’s enough to melt him too, watching those eyes, as warm and vast as a sun-drenched, clear summer sky. “Relax,” Carlos soothes. “Just relax yourself. You’ll be fine.” Paul tries, half-relaxes. Carlos kisses his lips over and over, his cheeks, his eyelids. “Just…relax. I’ll stop if you want me to.” Paul shakes his head frantically. He’s fighting without knowing it, but he doesn’t want Carlos to stop. That much he does know. Eventually he does relax, panting, confining his tension to his tightly balled fists. Carlos continues, pushing slowly until his hips meet the back of Paul’s thighs, milky moonlight against silk ivory. Paul’s face is creased in a frown, but when his eyes open, they’re as molten as the rest of him, and he gnaws his lip in anticipation. “Okay?” Carlos whispers. Paul nods. “I didn’t hurt you?” Paul shakes his head this time, and Carlos kisses him as he rolls his hips slowly. Paul breaks their kiss, moaning feverishly. The new sunlight is stronger, redder now, and Paul glows in the early morning light. He’s glowing all over, a hot flush spreading over his skin as his leg-lock on Carlos grows tighter and his moaning grows louder. He sounds like he’s dying. Carlos is losing himself in Paul’s torrid heat. The feeling is overwhelming; he’s bunching up like a spring, and he can’t believe that he is doing this, here, with Paul. He just can’t believe this. It has to be a dream. But if it is, it’s the most real dream he’d had in a long time, and he doesn’t want to wake up just yet. Paul’s writhing as though in agony, twisting and turning, tensing in anticipation of the heat that’s slowly slicking its way up his spine. His nails are scoring precipitously down Carlos’s back; the bassist feels beautiful inside him, striking into him with long penetrating thrusts that leave him aching on retreat and bursting as he thrusts back in. He’s undone. Paul practically screams, and Carlos wraps his hand around Paul’s thick, throbbing cock. It’s more than Paul can take. At first, he had thought he wouldn’t be able to handle something like this, and in a sense, he had been right. It doesn’t take long—a few seconds, maybe—before Paul’s breath is robbed of him totally in place of a long, low, orgasmic moan. The burn is consuming, a conflagration, and Carlos feeds it with his pounding hips and viselike grip. Powerful, soul-deep wrenches shaking him out of the claws of reality, every muscle pulsing deeply. He is breathing the heat, clinging to it, letting it devour him alive: pure fire. The white fire. Little death. A complete undoing. So good it almost hurts. Paul looks beautiful when he comes, his face drawn in ecstasy that is so powerful that it looks like pain, and the sight makes Carlos’s skin crawl in powerful agitation. “God, Paul, oh fuck,” Carlos is whispering between quiet moans, and he arches upward in powerful climax, scalding Paul inside with his hot come. Carlos slumps between Paul’s sprawled legs, completely spent. He’s panting, breathing heavier than he’s ever breathed, feeling completely and utterly exhausted and even more completely and utterly satisfied. Paul is lying like a toppled scarecrow on the bed, slowly recovering his conscious thought from the best ride of his life. By the time it’s filtered back, he’s nearly asleep. “Carlos…?” He whispers drowsily. “Mmm.” Carlos makes a sound in his throat, half animal, half sleepy human. “Come up here.” Carlos raises himself on shaking, weak arms and withdraws himself from Paul, sorry to break such contact between them. He collapses again and has to edge himself upward to Paul’s level. “How did you know?” Paul asks without opening his eyes. “Mm. Know what?” Carlos nuzzles Paul’s neck, planting loving kisses there. “That that was what I wanted.” “I didn’t,” Carlos admitted. “I…didn’t even know.” He yawns widely, catlike, and drapes an arm over Paul’s body. Paul puts his arms around Carlos and sighs happily. “Thank you.” He kisses Carlos’s cheek, and the bassist turns his head slightly to catch his lips in a brief, wet goodnight kiss. Paul is awake for a long time, but it doesn’t matter. He’s happy. He’s completely undone.