no-sex The Fire Suite, Second Chapter

[spokenthunder]

Hello everyone,

It is very nerve-wracking to post a story here.

Sharing your work--a piece of yourself--is frightening. The person who opens your work can find something unexpected, connect with the thoughts and feelings expressed, or they can find it complete trash, toss it aside. The uncertainty is overwhelming. How will people react, if at all?

But, I'm placing it here, among so many others. Constructive criticism is welcomed, but please be gentle.

This story is a bit...different than what you're probably used to here, and a bit dark. Please keep an open mind.

You can find Part I here: http://muscle-growth.org/topic/742-the-fire-suite/#entry3436

Without further ado, here's "The Fire Suite", Part II.

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The Fire Suite, Part II

You push the door shut, pausing for the inevitable click. The hallway is dim, stagnant. A puff of hot air escapes from the bathroom, and you move towards that warmth.

Once inside, you remove your clothing without a second thought. Nude under fluorescent light, you glance at yourself in the dirty mirrors. Your eyes trace the curve of musculature as you flex for nobody, do this pose or that. You can’t help but smile, maybe even grin at the bulk that you’ve obtained. Years of hard work there, no magic formula. That’s what got your boyfriend’s attention, what causes him to linger with you in bed, what makes him follow you around like an imprinted duckling.

You stop abruptly, remembering that there’s somebody else showering. For a moment, you lose your cool, you relax your muscles.

For a moment, you doubt yourself.

You slip under the hot spray, let your hands scrub away at skin. What is there to fear? You are perfect, you are wanted by so many, you are loved. Yet what might be there in stalls is imposing. Judgment pours down behind the pale curtain, strikes in the clink of shower rings. It’s that moment when you step down from grace. Are you some demigod, or are you just mortal, flawed like everyone else?

Silently, you psych yourself. You’re beautiful, you’re amazing, you’re the best man. You switch the water off and reach for your towel. The negativity passes, fades into steam. You put on fresh clothing, style your hair at the perfect angle, and another day begins.

For once, walking through the campus, you notice the world around you. Blanketed in a dusting of snow, you feel as if you’re walking on some strange, distant world. Shivering, you realize how much better you’d feel with a large cup of coffee and perhaps an omelet. It isn’t that far to your destination, but at the same time, you feel lucky to be surrounded by the grandeur of your campus.

At the cafeteria, there’s your familiar crowd, laughing, taunting, enjoying each other’s company. Thinking about nothing, that’s their talent. You can say whatever’s on your mind with them and they won’t care, unless it’s about a particular sports team or talking trash about another jock. ‘Bros before hos,’ states the motto.

You grab your coffee and omelet and find an empty seat. “Hey man, where’ve you been?” one might say.

“Sleeping, what else,” you’ll reply.

The chatter continues as you eat. You hear about last night’s party, about who got trashed, about what girl’s the new slut. It’s always the same, these conversations. Between mouthfuls, you hear about how the team’s doing, what’s going to happen at practice, how far they’re going to go with the new players this year. You’ve learned to tune it out pretty easily if you want to eavesdrop on a better conversation, or ogle some eye candy.  Unfortunately, beyond your friends, the cafeteria only contains a scatter of students here and there. Your eyes try to settle upon a target between nods and expected grunts.

But as your group cheers over something unimportant, you notice that by the glass wall, there’s that strange kid and your giant RA, talking intently, looking out the window. You wonder what they’re talking about. Perhaps it’s more interesting than what you’re forced to listen to, but you’ve come to accept your group, your crowd. Or, perhaps they’d consider you as dull and dimwitted as your friends, thinking nothing beyond beer and plastic doll girlfriends.  Part of you nonchalantly dismisses others’ perceptions, but maybe, just maybe, there’s a part that wishes to be accepted. There’s a part that wants to be known as more than a dumb jock, wants others to realize that your brain doesn’t hurt when you think about abstract concepts. You’re so much more than they give you credit for.

But, then again, who would dare look down upon you, in all your glory?

Finishing your breakfast, you nod off to your friends with the typical ‘bro’ vernacular, and you head off to class. It’s there, in another dry lecture, that those thoughts return. With your textbook propped open, you find yourself taking better notes, concentrating instead of slowly dozing off. You find yourself writing with fervor, understanding the professor’s concepts better than before.

It may be a conscious decision, but you resolve to prove them all wrong, that you’re better than they think, that you’re more than what life offers. You’re not a walking stereotype, a cartoonish figure to be laughed at. Yet, among pencils scribbling and fingers tapping upon laptops, nobody’s laughing.

*

The room is quiet, too quiet for a weekday morning.  Hushed light glows on a print by Degas, a clock slowly breathes. The RA ushers the young man to sit on a green couch, suggests he have a cup of tea from the water fountain.

Waiting, he clutches his cup, shudders slightly.

“Don’t worry,” the giant says quietly, “Nobody’s here to harm you. This isn’t a mental institution. No sedation necessary. I’ve been through it and I’m normal, right?”

Normal. What does normal mean?  Could a person seeking mental help be considered normal compared to the mass of the student population?

A door opens slowly, and a thirty-something man emerges into the waiting room. Cropped blonde hair complements the empathetic blue of his eyes, the light upward curve of his lips before they open to say hello. Introductions are made as the counselor beckons the young man to his office down the hall. He looks back at the RA with concern.

“I’m not going anywhere, friend. I’ll be here, waiting. But I don’t want to interrupt your first session.”

First, as in a succession, a series. What was to come? He had no choice but to face the present, and quietly followed the counselor into the office.

With the door closed again, he realizes how small the room is, with no place to hide in. One chair for the patient, plush, inviting, surrounded by inspirational photos, books piled on bookshelves, a festoon of Tibetan prayer flags. He sits down, and the counselor hands him some forms and a ballpoint pen.

“Here, fill these out for me, please. It’s just preliminary paperwork just so we know who you are and what you’re here for, though your RA gave us an idea of the situation. The most important part is the confidentiality agreement. It basically says that anything we talk about here now or in the future will be strictly be between us; I won’t share anything you tell me to anybody else unless I feel that you’re in danger to yourself or others. So it’s like I’m keeping a secret for you. I will take some notes when you talk, but don’t let that intimidate you. It’s just in case I don’t see you in awhile I’ll have some idea of who you are and what we can work on, alright?”

The young man nods his head, then slowly fills out the forms, thinking over each question. Finished, he hands the papers over to the counselor, who studies them carefully.

“Let’s see…so you’re a sophomore, living on campus, studying English literature. You marked yourself down for depression, anxiety…all understandable by what your friend told us over the phone. But why don’t you tell me yourself. Why are you here? Or, why would your friend suggest you come here?”

He looks at the floor, can’t bear to lift his eyes beyond the legs of a swivel desk chair. Slowly, the words are mouthed, then quietly spoken. “I…I have problems. Big problems…I didn’t know who to turn to…”

The counselor nods, says nothing. The young man continues, recounts nebulous stories. He unfurls the red ribbon and the gauze pad once more.

“This is the climax of my problems, right here,” he says quietly. The wound is slowly healing.

When he finishes his monologue, the counselor puts down his pen, looking at the young man’s bowed head. “Well, I think you understand why you’re here. I hope your RA has explained that the counseling center’s here to guide you, not to judge you or your actions. This may be a private catholic college, but I’m not here to condemn you. Nobody has to know what you’ve done unless you want them to know.

“I’d like to get to know you better and hopefully I can give you some advice or ideas to deal with your pain. And trust me, you’re not alone; humans aren’t immune to pain. Remember that.

“So, would you like to meet again and talk some more? It’s completely up to you; nobody has to force you to come here.”

A quiet voice whispers a “yes”, followed by a “thank you”.

“Excellent! How about next week, same time?”

A nod.

“Well, then, I think this meeting has been a success. I look forward to getting to know you better. I’m sure you have to get off to classes now, so I’ll see you next week.”

 

The counselor says no more, but opens the door, offers his hand. A bond forms, perhaps a loose one, as the young man shakes weakly. The opening of the door signals the RA to look up from a pamphlet and stand up. He exchanges some look with the counselor, as if speaking a common language, then looks down at his friend.

“So, how’d it go?”

“I have an appointment for next week. That is all.”

“Well, it’s a start, right? You’re doing the right thing for you, buddy. I’ll support you one-hundred percent whatever you want to do; that’s what I’m here for, what we’re all here for, like a family.”

They slowly walk away from the center and into the cold, into the real world. They take separate paths, have different agendas, but will reunite at night over tea and jazz music.

Alone, he realizes that there is still time before classes. There is still time to think.

He returns to his refuge, his sanctuary behind the library. Gnarled branches swoop down to the earth, creating a barrier from the outside world. He finds a pathway and climbs up it with ease. Looking down, he realizes how far removed he is from the world below. The thought dissipates, vanishes like the warm breath trailing from his mouth.

He finds a perch and rests for a moment, lets his mind pause, grips the wooden knobs. His listens carefully to the rustle of the crisp brown leaves, the singing air. There is no security in this hidden place, despite his camouflage with the beech’s skin. His eyes dart, seeking the source of the fog rolling into the area. However, he knows that only one entity could instill such strange anxiety within him.

A trail of black gracefully descends from above, shoes barely skimming branches. Slowly, the darkness morphs into a lithe, monochrome figure of a man.

He looks away from the figure, tries to regulate his heartbeat, wipes the slight condensation on his forehead. His mouth struggles to open, lips pushing forward in a circle.

“You,” he whispers.

“What kind of greeting is that, after all this time?” The man reaches his target, resting cold hands upon shoulders. “You got a light for an old friend?”

No response. He pulls the lighter from his jacket and flicks open the small flame. The man gingerly places the lit cigarette into his mouth, then slowly releases the smoke from his body. “I know you only carry around that lighter for me. You’re not a smoker; it’s not healthy for you. Have you been hoping for my return?”

He doesn’t make eye contact. “You’re like the wind; you come and go as you please. I don’t control your activity. You only visit when you’re bored and need someone to torment.”

“You’re no fun,” the man pouts. “I don’t torment you. I love you with all my heart.”

“What heart?”

The man laughs, takes another draw on his cigarette. “Such a joker, you. What has my little writer been up to in my absence? Don’t tell me you’re writing another melancholy number.”

He places his free hand to his forehead, tilted back.  “’Oh, woe is me! Nobody loves me! I am destined to be forever alone! Blah blah blah!’ Did I get the premise right? Add in a little magic and we’ve got another sensation. So droll.”

“Why do you do this to me?” the boy asks. “I never asked for you.”

“No, you’re right. You didn’t. But I’m here to help you. You couldn’t write without me. You wouldn’t be able to let the words out. Without me, you are nothing. Just another loser like all those people below. You feel and think on a higher plane now. You understand things that they don’t and maybe never will.”

“The writer’s curse,” the boy mutters.

“I think of it as a gift. Not everyone is that lucky. You think your RA would have picked you from the other guys in the hallway if you weren’t so enigmatic? You’ve turned into quite the puzzle.”

He says nothing again.

“And now you want to be solved, don’t you?” The man’s grey eyes sparkle in the filtered light. “I’ve been following you. I know what you’re up to, know where you’ve been. Don’t think of yourself as a handyman’s project. No person can fix you.”

“I don’t want to be fixed. I want to change things. I want to undo it all. I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll—ˮ

“You’ll what? You’ll ‘this’ again,” the man states, tugging on the ribbon peeping out of the boy’s sock. “You’re too big of a coward to repeat something so drastic. Let’s be realistic, hm? The cygnet turns into an ugly duck.”

His body shudders as black cloth coils around him. He tries to keep a stiff face in the sudden silence. For a moment, they are stationary, in unison.

The man rests his head on a shoulder, listens to steady breathing. “There, there. Don’t cry now. Your heart swells with love, I know it, but you have nobody to share that warmth with. I feel all your pain, boy. I will swallow it all.”

His eyes paralyzed, he feels the weight upon his back increase, senses the arms wrapped around his torso build in strength, veins slithering across biceps and forearms. The slightness of the man swells with pressure, burgeons into that familiar vee. Legs push forward, sweep outward, entwine with his own. Face drained of all color, he is locked within a cocoon of flesh, so immensely his opposite.

Unreal.

A trail of words pierces the sanctuary. “Is this what you want?”

He can only quiver in such an embrace. Air slides through his ear, drops into his core.

“You poor fool. You cannot escape your fate. You will burn in the flames of eternal love.”

The weight lifts off him, dark limbs drifting into the fog. A heaving, a whimpering.

Doors clang open, students pour out of the library, and the world returns to its natural tones.

For a while, he remains there, clinging to his branch as the fog dissipates.

*

In a break between classes, you take a stroll through the library, move from the commons down to the computer labs. It’s not as if you ever want to spend time there unless you’re forced to for some project. You can never remember the book call numbers, in some odd pattern of letters and numbers, but you remember where the last place they were, or some student worker can find them if you slather on your signature charm.

Today, though, the library is a point of warmth between buildings, a convenient place to wait instead of wasting time outside.

You eventually leave after looking some information up on a computer. You sling your backpack over broad shoulders, then follow the stream of students leaving for the next class. Emerging from the library, you see the students diverge to their various locations, steer around the behemoth tree by the full parking lot.

Walking slowly, you hear the tree shudder, and you watch a squirrel leap from the stone wall to the closest available branch. It’s just a squirrel, dull gray like all the others, probably foraging for food. But it’s that moment, following the squirrel’s movement, that you notice that there’s something beyond squirrels or birds in that tree. It’s distant, but large, imposing, like a bear, though bears don’t hang out in trees.

You carefully push a branch or two aside, the light weight of them swinging back behind you. In that moment, you look up at the tree’s majesty, fully realizing the ancient splendor of the trunk as it swerves towards the sky.

In that moment, you catch the massive figure stationed on a high branch.

“Holy shit,” you mutter.

You hold your breath. The figure doesn’t move. You study it, study him. A surefire man, gazing into something beyond. You’ve never seen him beyond campus, he looks young enough to be a student. With such a huge build, muscles clearly bulging from the confines of his jacket, he’d have to be an athlete, a jock like you. But you were familiar with the various teams, and this guy would certainly be on the football or rugby team.

Perhaps he was a bodybuilder, a professional, competing one, you think. But he seems off compared to others he knew, something melancholy rather than jovial, ethereal rather than concrete. These thoughts create a stirring within you. Your body warms, your hands tremor slightly. It’s unlike you to feel nervous by someone else. Or, is it an entirely new feeling, an unearthed sensation?

Coughing politely, you stammer, “Um, hello? Excuse me, but are you new here?”

The man’s stance breaks sharply. His gaze turns towards you, and he gasps. The branch shudders violently as he falls from above. With a heavy thud, he braces the cold earth.

You rush over to help him, but among the oversized jacket, something about him is different. You place a hand on him, saying, “Are you alright, buddy? I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ve just never seen you around here and wanted to—“

Familiar eyes pierce you beyond thick glasses. A thin arm sweeps your hand away as if it was a pesky insect.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” the young man cries out. He abruptly gets up, darts away from you, and escapes with surprising speed. Watching the young man head into the crowd of students, you’re left in wonder.

“What the hell was that,” you mutter. You still feel the sting of his eyes upon you. Coming out of the temporary paralysis, you resume your walk to your next class.

[ShortMusclStud]

Keep this going! Want to know what happens next