Eden when God is away

Because they’re given to impulse and to dilly dally they were angry and starving and like cracked out procrastinating the chow down. Then all buzzed and tired upon feeling full or whatever. They being this old old vampire with his young partially consumed boyfriend.

Pat gets Extra with enthusiasm about feeding but it’s not like he has to eat humans technically. Something silly and disturbing humans eating other humans over and over Mo’s long history spells this out. Like one hen nips at another.

Pat ignores when Mo acts out loneliness, shrewdness, whimsy, perplexity. He thinks, it’s not about me per se. He thinks, the weird shit’s been cooking forever. Isn’t our love enough.

Naturally he followed Mo, everywhere.

Always shopping for bricks always lugging bricks around. To Pat the bricks were like barely variable combinations of a couple materials a couple colors a couple sizes. And there were a lot of them all over.

An amusing and interesting hobby, an oftentimes engaging performance by Mo, but it was definitely weird and then sometimes aggravating.

On an exemplary operatic occasion, pinning indigent orphans up the canyon backpack clapping and grinding with fossil lime crap from some ravaged pioneer hovel it came out

Dump the fucking bricks under a tree or something!! You can get them on the way back. Jesus. Talk about stressing me out.

Slapping shrieking bricks. (No birds no snakes no sunglasses. They were doing a mountain man bit.)

It’s a cardiovascular exercise! Fuck you giving me shit.

When they got home the plunder went to their particular stacks. Mo spent eternity contemplating arrangements and lighting little smokes. Pat pretended he was the skin on Mo’s sweaty jockcradled cock.

Some immeasurable lounging around later, getting fucked up and reading and edging,

Mo said Pick your favorite hundred. Hundred what? Which of the bricks my love. My favorite. There’s sure to be something. I’d hope so. How soon? Right now. Alright.

They went into each room of their castle and Pat indicated which, thoughtfully.

Oh okay I could see that says Mo. Interesting choice says Mo.

And then back to what they were doing before. Occasionally: Don’t look. Okay. Don’t look! I’m not looking! (Neither of them could absolutely know if the other was seeing or not.)

They vacationed along the coast. People came on boats from whatever places desperate for respite. A delicacy green and spry. Half-drowning from ridiculous water sports.

Drenched eat his sockets like a baking soda gel. Swing him hooked flapping gaping nostrils down beaches of mousetraps. The mousetraps were a long hazardous chore but they were really funny. Like cats, just the hunt to look forward to.

The rule, they say: they don’t sport so decadently with actually alive people. (The variables were usually too unwieldy to be worth it.)

The exception, they say: whenever they were making some silly point to each other, usually putting on plays. At best the plays were exorbitantly satisfying and at worst they were funny in a sad pathetic way.

For example: a two hour long comedy called Cleaning Burn Wounds was the pretense to

“outrageously” massacre a whole household without the prey realizing it.

(They like setting firm rules and breaking them.)

Pat and Mo showed up performance night to a shelter sort of outfit. These days there were lots of these kinds of places. Good first impression, quiet sleeping committed heartbeats. Except a sour drain smell somewhere.

Pat said Nothing about it, conspicuously, and to tease him Mo took the two of them right to the source.

A poor thin wretched old boy. His breathing sounded like trench warfare and he’d had an accident all round his legs abed. Oops.

(No mention of the sour! It wasn’t the poop it was something else.)

They browsed the others.

Give that one the spray. Misplaced enema. Comes softly sleepily crying for help and finds the face already like glue. I love it that would be good for her. Something smell weird? Like what?

Mo ain’t dealing with the stinker he couldn’t stand that revolting bouquet. And yet he didn’t want his boyfriend to feel left out or like gaslighted all butthurt hard to pick out the niceties.

So he got Pat to thinking about leaving one survivor.

No one will care for him. Yeah exactly, no one will care for him.

This sort of detail is perfect for tragedies and ironically triumphant endings.

Get a dreadful poopy rash. He’ll have to run a tub by himself. Olympics.

Warm bright nights they climb tall trees and light embers at the top smell the difference

between maturities. The lowering aging leaves get dumped for fertilizer once the ones on top shadow it. I’m not sure that’s right. There’s like a sweeter stink. What else?

More or less there for every sniff Pat had his favorite smokes but he didn’t have the same words to express them.

Sometimes they somehow get separated. (Mo is the host of at least both of them.)

All by himself my master dead time completely unknowable Pat at home for a little thing Pat at home just make it stop a very long time dead if he could virtue of its length my man my love just scream and sob let something out even just a little moment for all he knew just no Mo just completely breathyoked. And then

Mo comes back. Sweet heat in the gasped air.

You good? Yeah where’d you go?

Scared and tortured to not protect you.

Finger pucker.

When did I protect you. Shut up. Do you think that’s weird?

Stretching at the knuckle. Hole a vise.

It’s not weird. I feel less vulnerable with you.

Meat suction warm gels.

I can be brave enough to protect you.

Cock taut and pinched. Cock unspooled. Sober aggressive dreams.

Never ever give sensation live with closed off prey.

But I hoped differently.

And gain gorged enjoy gentle hard.

I would have, too…

being in someone, imagine.

Face smile an empty shotgun. I am your memories.

I hoped that life completely away forever. Forever.

Or for.

Love you longer. I know.

Mo arms around himself to gesture at hugging to Pat.

Don’t look I have a surprise for you. Okay I’m not looking. Don’t look I’ll tell you when to look. Okay yes. It’s done it’s done it’s done it’s done.

They went out back, unto a cool spring fog vaguely sprouting pasture (they don’t care the backyard). For normal people there was toxic sludge all over. Mo wondered if Pat was looking—he wasn’t.

We’re sitting down. Okay.

Now look. They were in like a tall bricked closet, with a tarp cover at the skinny entry. Ass on a warm seated hole. What is this, an outhouse?

(Mo doesn’t shit.) Yeah.

They sat.

Oh okay.

The bricks stacked in gently waving patterns that grew psychedelic to follow along.

That’s pretty cool, fun to watch. Do you like it? Sure, it’s kind of weird and surprising. To relax and feel comfortable and like feel stimulated in a calming hypnotic way. Bravo.

There was a prominent structurally vulnerable fuck-up as yet invisible to Pat, and when Mo realized it he said We can change it, I’m not really done yet.

No it’s perfect babe.

When it mattered Pat had never used an outhouse it could be a joke he doesn’t get but it was an endearing little gesture like when did this even happen.

Okay then.