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Tanrak is sitting at the desk of his candle-lit dorm when Barth rushes into the room—like a tide, restless at first, he slows when the other is within his line of sight. Tonight, he is dressed in dark trousers and a dress shirt that ends at his wrists. Tanrak notices the small ruffles on them as Barth’s fingers brush against the mahogany.
The other’s skin is lit honey through the candles, the brown tint of his hair set on fire by the candles as he takes Tanrak in—in that fiery gaze, Tanrak feels the flame fanning in his navel, feels the nakedness of his being through his cotton nightclothes. His notes—which, for some reason, were being written with an ink pen—lay abandoned and stained blue as Barth leans in, his eyes now brown with bits of candlelit gold flickering across.
“Barth.” Tanrak finds himself murmuring, unable to escape the growing lump in his throat; the rawness of desire flutters between them as Barth comes up from behind him, closing his long, lithe fingers on the other’s throat.
Tanrak hisses at the contact, shaky breaths coming from his lips.
“‘Rak.” Barth whispers as he bites Tanrak’s ear; and the other finds himself floating away, away as Barth’s other hand sinks underneath his buttoned shirt, his own coarse voice filling the room, how Barth knows the melodies that lie in his navel—
Tanrak jumps up from his bed, hair plastered to his forehead, sweating through the blanket. The dawn has only just walked through the room, the rest of the dorm soundly asleep. A hand instinctively finds the spot where Barth had bit his ear—summoning the flood of emotion from the car, from the moments the other’s fingers had emblazoned themselves on his hips. Those lips, from whose he stole the bits of Barth’s voice for himself.
The other’s face, lit in the early hours of dawn, as Tanrak fled once they had entered the seminary—breathless, shaking, and afraid of the intensity of the fire stirring in his chest.
Tanrak folds into himself, trying to calm the quiver his breath inherits from the dream: one hand on his chest, the other fisting the sheets, the image of Barth’s eyes running in his mind like an endless wave.
He only gets five minutes before the sunlight enters the room in its fullness—as the others shiver and rise from their beds, Tanrak makes the dash to the showers, heart still thudding furiously.
—
Tanrak lets his body go on autopilot as it goes through the motions of getting ready for mass—yet, when his own skin catches the blaze of sunrays, the swift memory of Barth’s sunlit neck under his fingers emerges. He freezes at that, feeling the ghost of a dream shudder down his spine, waiting for its wave to cease, or to be fulfilled.
Once again, as he stands at the lectern, he lets his fingers float over that same, tender spot on his ear, the word of God escaping his lips and his eyes suddenly finding Barth’s in the room.
Dressed in the seminary’s cobalt blue shirt and black dress pants, he leans against the wall, listening to Tanrak speak. Brown eyes turning into a deeper night as he takes in the other’s voice, the soft gulps of air in between, the curve of his neck as the father taps him on the shoulder.
As the father speaks, Tanrak spots Barth pressing a finger to his lip, its pad dipping into its softness—and a shiver stumbles through him, bathing him in the same fires he’s been trying to resist. It distracts him, bringing his body back into the size of that morning, that car, and every bit of Barth’s scent.
“Tanrak! Did you hear what I just said?” The father shakes him by the shoulder.
“Yes, father?” He replies, dazed in memory.
The father sighs. “You’ve been awfully distracted throughout service. Your prayers need to be mindful.”
Tanrak nods, eyes lowered—the sting of the father’s words lashes through him. From the corner of his eye he sees Barth take a step forward, his hand lifted slightly, as if to reach out to him.
With a sigh, he lets his feet carry him back to the inner rooms of the chapel, the sting blending into the way he always finds Barth reaching out, his arms spread wide open against the wind. The feel of his arms against his own skin—and the way he lapped up a stray raindrop sliding down his open palm.
The sensation of his open palms flat on his collarbone as he kissed him deeper, fingers catching his rising heartbeat—
“‘Rak!” Tanrak is pulled back into the inner hallway as Barth holds his wrist, the touch like an ice-cold wind breathing through him.
Tanrak backs against a wall, his eyes trained on his shoes. A stray thumb softly rubbing on the bone. He hums, the feeling electric as it sings through him.
“Why did you let the father reprimand you?” Barth says, his other hand touching the red of the priestly robes.
“It doesn’t matter, Barth.” Tanrak waves his hand. “Besides, it was true. Nothing would’ve convinced him otherwise.”
How could I have explained, he thinks, that loving God is something that is done on autopilot—and that loving you, Barth, was a devotion so incredibly alive that his presence
scorched through his heart every service?
But Barth, unaware of these words, says—“look at me, ‘Rak.”
“Barth.” Tanrak whispers, the electricity seeping into his blood. “Let go.”
“You’ve been avoiding me, ‘Rak.” Barth heeds him; letting his wrist go but stepping closer, his hands rising up Tanrak’s arms.
Tanrak finds himself incapable of breath, incapable of movement: he closes his eyes and lets Barth come closer, so close their noses brush. So close that he can feel Barth’s finger on his mole, the flutter of his eyelashes on his cheek. Forehead to forehead as the other’s hands reach for his neck, as Tanrak’s gaze opens to the slight dip in his lips, desire rippling through.
So heartbreakingly close—that when the loudness of a door flashes through the hallway, Tanrak pushes Barth harshly; the other colliding with the other wall.
He falls to his knees, breaths short and eyes blurry: the betrayal to his God and desire streaming through his being parallely, together—as if those two emotions were companions, friends, travellers, lovers.
“‘Rak—”
“Don’t call me that!” Tanrak musters, looking at Barth’s body rising above him, his face awash with concern.
Barth freezes at the other’s harsh voice, inching away slowly as Tanrak curls within himself, his head in his hands.
Don’t call me ‘Rak. Don’t call me love. Don’t call me anything that can be loved.
Tanrak stands up, gives Barth the smallest glance, remembers the desire pooling as he touched him for the first time in weeks. Realizes how Barth’s touch rivalled God himself—hands so divine that they could bring him alive merely through their ghosts.
For I am a poor excuse of it.
Tanrak walks away, knowing how much of his devotion Barth has with him—and the fact that perhaps Barth knows it, deep inside.
—
For a while, Tanrak feels okay—he sits in his classes, does his services, studies into the early evening hours. Somehow, he walks through the little town next to the seminary with ease, laughing with his friends, enduring their teasing.
And then, after one such night, (where they’d also drunk a bit—Tanrak remembers the burn almost too clearly), he lands on his bed, riding out the last moments of adrenaline. It is these almost unreal moments when he sees him.
Barth—bathed in the moonlight of his reality and of his dreams, his awareness.
Tanrak pulls himself so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed as Barth approaches, footsteps echoing throughout the empty dorm.
Too drunk, his conscience screams as he allows Barth to take his chin, tilting his face upwards. A soft finger rubbing through the stubble, feeling the tiny hairs.
“Drunk?” Barth whispers and the other nods—his finger reaching upwards, at the edge of his lips.
Tanrak closes his eyes, waiting for skin to erupt through his mouth—only to be startled by the sound of the door again.
Opening his eyes, he sees no sign of Barth; only one of his roommates, who was now looking at him with concern.
“Tanrak? Are you okay?” the boy asks. “You’re really red.”
The other nods. “Probably the alcohol. I’ll be fine.”
Tanrak lies down again, confused. He thinks of Barth’s gaze, his touch, the way his body obeyed to be dangerously on the ledge again. The hallway, where his arms were pressed, urging him to teeter closer to the cliff. The name of love escaping his lips, imagining him saying his name multiple, copious, breathless times.
Devotion.
And so every day Tanrak sees Barth around him, feels Barth in every place he frequents, in everyone he interacts with.
He is aware when they walk in opposite directions in the dorm hallways and Barth’s fingers brush against the other’s palm, causing him to freeze, catch his breath.
He is aware when he’s sitting amongst dusty, old books in the library and Barth’s scent greets him—leaning into it, its earthy taste ripe on his tongue.
He is aware when, during his turn at service, Barth kneels near the lectern; his gaze making Tanrak’s body tremble, the heat of him emblazoning itself even from a distance.
The body remembers, he recollects reading once. The body remembers what the mind, the soul forgets.
Tanrak hasn’t slept in so long he doesn’t even remember; his waking dreams filled with Barth, his presence everywhere around his dorm. His nightly dreams pushing him deeper, jerked awake by the image of his own lips on Barth’s throat, suckling on every gulp, every gasp.
He falls asleep and wakes with his name on his lips, holy as they fall—as Tanrak dreams of love and devotion, wanting the rise of his chest against his own heartbeat.
—
When Tanrak enters the shared showers, he isn’t ready to see Barth first, standing right in the middle of the room.
Tanrak gulps a large amount of air as he walks in, placing his folded clothes neatly at the top of the rack, aware of Barth’s watchful gaze. They change out of their clothes in silence, every moment between them heavy, ticking towards implosion.
From the corner of his eye, Tanrak spots the muscles that ripple through the other’s honeyed back; the familiar memory of the same back, the same travelling canyons, the same sunkissed skin. It runs, ice-cold, in his mind—for a long moment, he leans against the cold granite walls, naked. Stares at his own hands that tingle, that tremble when pitted against him.
If devotion is a love on autopilot, something to be followed like the motions of a mundane life, then I don’t think I want that.
Barth has his back turned to him, shower running as Tanrak steps in. His hands find the hollows of his shoulder-blades; the other freezes, skin turning hotter and hotter underneath his touch.
If this desire, this sense of being so utterly, horribly alive—then I will worship at his altar, forever.
Tanrak’s lips close on the side of Barth’s neck, suckling deeply. His earthy scent rushes through his mouth and Tanrak relishes it, along with the tiny sounds the other lets out, little hums as he travels higher.
He reaches for the spot behind his ear and showers it with kisses, with his other hand caresses Barth’s other ear, going from his earlobe to the softness between his ear and his hair.
Another hand reaches from behind to Barth’s throat, wrapping around it—finger pads feeling every gulp of breath as Tanrak travels from ear to neck to the dips of his shoulder, tongue tasting every inch of muddy earth, of sun-lit canyons.
“Tan…” Barth murmurs through the string of cries, and Tanrak uses his palm to turn the other’s face towards him.
Brown eyes faced his black gaze—deep, rainy earths as desire ebbs and flows through them. Noses barely inches apart as Tanrak takes in the face of his worship, the altar of Barth’s lips.
He lets Barth push him into the walls, underneath the streaming shower; the water colder than ever on their heated bodies. The other puts his arms around Tanrak’s waist like they’d belonged there forever; sinking his nose in the depths of his neck, jasmine and earth mingling together.
Before Barth could kiss him,however, Tanrak switches their positions: his palm flat on Barth’s stomach, and his other hand holding his chin. For a brief moment, they breath in unison—the incredulity of it all mixed in with raw, blatant need for one to devour the other, to show heaven to the other.
“Barth.” He whispers, sending a shiver down the other’s spine. “Say my name.”
“Tanrak.” The other says dutifully, but Tanrak nods in the negative.
“Not… that.” He mutters. “The other one.”
“Oh.” Barth replies. Letting his forehead against the other’s, he says.
“‘Rak.”
And Tanrak melts his lips against the other’s—like waves crashing violently on a cliff, hoping to rise towards the moon. Barth’s arms find the other’s neck, with one hand reaching to fist his hair.
Tanrak pulls away, brushing a finger against Barth’s nipple and watching a loud moan erupt through—and he kisses into the sound, feeling the vibration of his voice through his jaw.
That sound, delicious as his skin, drives the other to a delirious edge: his hand sinking deeper, circling his hips in need for that hymn to emerge once again from his lover’s lips.
Lover—the sound of a word as delirious as hope can ever taste, Tanrak thinks as he kisses the other’s neck, leaving marks all over.
Tanrak’s hand reaches downward: past his stomach, past his navel; he looks at Barth for permission, head resting on the other’s shoulder.
Barth, overwhelmed by multiple sensations all at once, musters a weak nod, and Tanrak’s fingers wrap around the other.
The rest erupts in a wave of groans and sweet melodies: Tanrak finds himself smiling in adrenaline as he chases Barth’s high with him. His sweet Barth, whose nails dig deep, deep, into his shoulder, whose cries he eats as they erupt.
“Faster—” The other breathes out, and Tanrak catches his jaw this time, pressing a kiss.
“Say my name again.” He insists, his worshipping hands going faster.
“‘Rak.” He whimpers, and Tanrak feels a jolt go down his own navel.
“‘Rak. ‘Rak. Oh my god, ‘Rak—” The other swallows the name of God from his lips, biting his lower lip harshly.
“Only my name, only mine.” Tanrak whispers, pressing a kiss on the other’s brow as he moves faster than ever.
Barth’s voice transforms into a mumbled set of cries, whimpers and whispers of “‘Rak.’” across. His lips on his neck, Tanrak looks up to see the crimson hues of Barth’s face, his melting eyes, the way he attempts a weak smile as the other smiles at him in wonderment.
“Are you close?” Tanrak asks and Barth almost gives a nod until it happens—Barth’s eyes glazed over as the climax breathes through his body like an earthquake.
Tanrak puts all his weight on Barth as they breathe together, holding the other until all that is left of the wave is the slow tide of his eyes, the winds of his lips.
He smiles, pressing his nose against the other’s neck—and is startled when Barth pins him to the granite walls.
Barth falls to his knees in front of a naked Tanrak, and looks up.
“‘Rak.”
His name, uttered in breathlessness, is enough for Tanrak to submit, to surrender to worship, devotion, and everything else.
Barth takes him in his mouth and Tanrak almost slips—stars exploding slowly at the corners of his eyes as the other’s fingers on his thighs sears him to near oblivion. For moments after, he feels the impending implosion; with nothing to hold, Tanrak’s hands run through Barth’s hair.
His own head falls back as pleasure rips through his chest, moans coloured in devotion dripping down his lips and to the bent spine of Barth.
Barth lifts off for a moment and looks up again—lips swollen crimson, spit dribbling on the corner, eyes gleaming with desire.
Tanrak lets the image burn into his eyes, ripping a place for itself at his mind’s altar.
“Say my name, ‘Rak.” He whispers, letting his name roll against his navel, which makes Tanrak moan louder.
“Barth.” He whispers and is then reduced to an utter moaning mess as Barth quickens his pace, pressing kisses down his body. In the midst of the implosion, Tanrak finds himself laughing, letting himself float into his beloved’s arms, desire rising and rising as he approaches the climax.
And then he catches his own dazed, desire-riddled reflection in a mirror miles away—it causes him to come back, to realize that he is not the devotee of his beloved, that everything outside his arms, outside his tide, will defeat his heart.
So Tanrak taps Barth, pulls him up, and kisses him deep and damp, feeling the salt of his own body and the love that he tries to face bravely, every day.
“I need to see you, beloved.” He whispers and Barth nods, letting his hands take over—Tanrak doubles over, moaning and laughing as they both, once again, chase the horizon of desire hand in hand.
Tanrak, finally, unravels under Barth’s quick, careful touch: burying himself into the other’s shoulder as he slumps down, taking Barth with him.
The shower rages on above them as they sit in the same position—letting their breaths slow, and feel the universe between them beat, coming alive through the seams.
—
Tanrak opens his eyes to Barth gazing at him—still naked, they sit in the shower, now shut off, in silence, one watching the other.
“I’ve missed you, ‘Rak.” Barth whispers. His hand hovers above Tanrak’s cheek—tentative, hesitant.
He finally breathes when the other lays his cheek on his hand, looking at him with tired, spent eyes.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you.” Barth continues, pressing his lips to Tanrak’s temple.
Tanrak hums as he spots their reflection in the distant mirror—two lovers, entwined in devotion; divine, yet separated by divinity.
“You have no idea how long it took me to find you.” Tanrak replied back, low as a whisper.
They stay there for a long time—moonlit bodies so distant from reality; yet forged in the same bones of devotion.
They stay there, bathed in their breaths, for what is an eternity—beloved by each other’s universes.