In the morning when we left it was dark still, the drive to the hospital, the cold, the knowledge that it was his last time to be filled, to be possessed. I'd never cared so much as him, hardly cared at all. But for him it was part of how he defined himself, being fucked, it was his joy. To lie under me, under any man he wanted to have. Have that man, many men, plow him, ride him, take him. fill him. He needed to be filled.
He had fought. We had fought together. Which was why he'd come to me. Why he'd become my lover, why in the end, now, perhaps he did love me. A man he never would have loved otherwise, never have moved to. Never have wept to.
After that long night I'd waited at the hospital all day, waited to be there when he opened his eyes, when it was done. Be there when he ceased to be the man he had defined himself as. Be there when he could never be fucked again. Knowing that not only had he lost that, but that the battle was being lost, the war we'd waged together for twelve years was not going to be won.
I had not been sure if he would do this in the end, if he would buy time by losing himself. A year and a half. Only another year and a half. How long that sounds in the beginning, how short it is as the days run out. One summer, one autumn, half a year gone suddenly, unstoppably, then a winter and a spring. One year gone. God, nothing more than one last summer and an autumn and it was ending. God I'd have to live alone through other autumns.
Afterwards he'd fucked me, I felt him move inside me, he wanted his cock inside me every night, in the end we argued. He wept. I gave him what he wanted. He I supposed taking the feeling of his cock in my arse, of hard flesh in soft, of raw power in yielding strength. Taking that and turning it about into the feeling of cock in arse, his arse, my cock. His non existant arse now, sewn up, gone. His rectum eaten away as his body was being finally consumed, now, as he lay on our bed weeping softly.
I went in to him. I lay beside him, cupped my body about his shell. I stroked his hair, I kissed his eyes, I kissed his mouth, dry, thin, transparent. His weeping tears draining him, leaving him dried out. He could have had a drip but had said no. It was time for him, he wanted to go, forget. He had lost what he had been, he was no longer a man, no longer a Greek god, a beauty made for sex and fucking. Perhaps he wept because he was already dead. Perhaps he was only a shadow, I held a shadow in my arms. I loved a shadow. God I had wanted him to win that war we'd fought so long, wanted him to live.
