Page 39 of After His Eulogy
“Okay.”
He is breathing. His chest is rising too fast. His hand has come up to my face and his palm is on my cheek and his thumb is on my mouth and I do not move.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Keep going.”
“You sure.”
“Yes.”
I keep going. His face is doing a thing it hasn’t done all night — his face has gone soft. The face he wears when he’s processing, the still version, has gone. What’s under it is the man without the still version. He’s letting me see it. His mouth is open. His eyes are wet. I see it. I don’t say anything. I keep going. There’s a tear at the corner of one eye, and as I watch it runs down the side of his face into his hair. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break eye contact. He doesn’t say anything. He isn’t crying in a way that’s a thing — he’s letting his body do whatever it does.
“Griffin.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what.”
“Don’t stop. Don’t make it a thing.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not bad.”
“I know.”
“Keep going.”
I keep going. Still using my hand. He’s still under me. His eyes are wet and there’s a second tear, and I’m watching it. Watching his face. I’m moving my hand slow inside him and his hand is on the side of my face and we’re doing this together and the tears aren’t stopping it.
“Now,” he says.
“Are you…“
“Now, Reed.”
“Okay.”
I get the condom on, steadier than I’d thought I would be — my hands know what to do. More lube. I move up over him and stop, because I want to look at him. He is on his back, his chest moving fast, his hair messy, his mouth open. One hand is on my hip; the other is fisted in the sheet. He is the version of him I have not seen in two years. He is here. He is letting me see him.
“Reed.”
“Yeah.”
“I am asking you to do this. So we both know I am asking.”
“Okay.”
“Fuck me.”
“Yes.”
“Now. Please.”
I push in. Slow. Slower than I’ve ever pushed in. He inhales, sharp, controlled. His hand on my hip goes white. I stop with just the head in.
“Don’t stop.”
“I…“
