He had no choice but to run away. For a while after the weather got cold, the Blueboy’s sister-in-law slipped him in the back door come nightfall, let him hide in the cellar behind the water heater. But two days ago the Blueboy’s brother had found out, gave them both a beating they wouldn’t soon forget.

Some iced part inside Michael cracked and slid free upon hearing the story. The stranger’s words awakened images of his own father. The last time Michael had seen him alive was the summer following his sophomore year of college. An older man Michael had met at a Jersey mall kept calling the house, prompting Michael’s father to ask point blank whether his only son was a faggot. Michael had snapped yes, the word blade-sharp on his tongue. The only thing that saved Michael from a trip to the emergency room that day was the sudden wail of his mother standing in his open bedroom door. Both Michael and his father froze as the small woman jerked her head forward then flung it back again and again against the wooden doorjamb in a vain effort to beat her son’s confession from her brain.

Now Michael’s father had lain dead two years from a burst coronary. At his sister’s request, Michael had gone to the funeral, held at the old Catholic church where he had once been an altar boy. He felt underdressed in his jeans and wool blazer, his general lack of sympathy. He was shocked to see how old his mother had grown since he walked out of her life, no light in her eyes as she stiffened inside his hug. When Michael’s sister invited him home after the service, Michael had nodded, Sure. But he had come by train and felt awkward asking relatives he hadn’t seen in years for a lift. No one offered. In the end he walked the half-mile back to the station alone and returned to the city without telling his mother and sister good-bye. In the month that followed, Michael’s sister called three times, offering Pollyanna clichés: Time to heal, make a fresh start, let bygones be bygones. But she and her husband now lived in Florida; what good would any truce do?

Michael pushed his family from his head, concentrated on the boy sitting on his bed blowing steam off his second cup of whiskeyed chamomile. Lamplight from the nightstand colored the boy’s bruised eye deep violet. Beautiful, Michael thought. He reached out, ran his finger across the wound. The boy flinched at the contact. Blue eyes skirted Michael’s own, tight black pupils dazed by clear sky, darkening to iced ultramarine.

The Blueboy exhaled slowly, fear of violence passing. He rubbed a drop of tea spilled on his denims. Michael sat down on the bed, fingertips brushing the hair above the kid’s ear. The bruise was a continent Michael could lose himself in, the boy a body welcoming comfort.

Michael wanted to weigh their needs against each other’s, but no scale existed for such things. Senses took over, bending him forward, brushing his lips over the boy’s smoother set. No need to explain himself, his father, the virus in his blood. His body its own obvious motive.

Michael pulled back to steady his senses. In the brief moment it took to set their tea cups by the phone, words pushed up inside him. He wanted to tell the Blueboy he was sick inside, perhaps always so. But when he turned back, the Blueboy was already pulling his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor, a mixture of desire and resignation on his face.

The sight of the boy bare-chested and blooming stole the breath from Michael’s lungs, drowned confession’s slim second chance. Michael shoved the Blueboy down, worked his fingers into the grooves of the boy’s ribs, clutching smooth skin. The kid’s eyes glazed over then flickered shut, arms reaching for the headboard.

The boy’s flawed beauty astounded Michael. Something tight loosened inside him, but it wasn’t love, Michael wouldn’t let it be. The thought saddened him. He drew a slow breath, amazed that his body was capable of even deeper vulnerabilities than illness. He swallowed hard and shivered.

Inside Michael’s gut, desire curled—a ball of cottonmouths. He pulled off their clothes, hooked the Blueboy’s legs over his shoulders. A part of him wanted to slide red and raw into the boy’s ass, shoot those cottonmouths deep. But blood and sperm, especially his, couldn’t offer such communion. He rolled on a condom, and again, another.

Less resistance this time. The Blueboy bit his lip, scrunched his eyes in his damaged face, his body not yet fully broken in. His ass, rhythmic and ringed, clenched the shaft of Michael’s cock. Perhaps if Michael fucked the Blueboy hard enough, he could lose himself inside the kid. He didn’t want to think his own thoughts anymore. He wanted to rip off layered latex and feel his body let go, regardless of the consequence. The boy bucked, like he wanted to come but couldn’t. Michael’s fingers squeezed the kid’s shoulders hard enough to leave marks. He hunched forward, found the head of the kid’s dick and tongued it to his mouth. The Blueboy gasped, body convulsing. Michael pushed harder and felt tension in his gut uncoil, shooting up and out.

Michael swallowed the last of the Blueboy’s cum, then let the still-hard cock fall from his mouth. He pulled out, gently lowering the boy’s legs to the bed, then removed sodden condoms and tossed them into a waste basket. He settled his head on the Blueboy’s stomach. The kid’s breathing slowed; his legs trembled.

Michael felt the boy’s hand run over the crown of his head where his hair was thin. Awesome, the Blueboy whispered.

Michael wanted to laugh but couldn’t. He rolled over and swallowed the Blueboy’s cock again, sending an electric jolt through the boy’s spent nerves. The Blueboy said nothing as Michael lay there, tongue circling the sensitive shrinking head.

The next morning, Michael cooked them eggs. His new AIDS Buddy, Keith, had taken it upon himself to keep Michael’s refrigerator well stocked. Michael was glad for the healthy appetite of company. The Blueboy ate greedily, his hair wet from the shower, his bruise a green copper-stain in the morning light, his young body fast to heal. Michael’s own food grew cold on his plate, appetite only for the pleasure his eyes drank in. He tore an ATM receipt in half and wrote his phone number on the part not showing his deficit, then handed it over. Come see me again.

The Blueboy shrugged and put on his coat.

*

When the first call came at 3 a.m., Michael stirred from sleep and groggily pressed the cold phone to his ear. It took a long moment to decode the “It’s me” at the other end. More words, a whisper, a bare exhale of breath. Look outside.

Michael gathered an extra handful of cord and pulled the phone to the window. He squinted down at the snow-slushed street. In the watery light of the street lamp, a figure stood by the payphone. Slowly a face turned up toward Michael’s window like a swimmer surfacing for air. The Blueboy. Michael breathed in deep at the sight.

While the Blueboy choked through another fight with his brother, Michael kept the receiver tucked against his ear and scrambled to find clean clothes. It had been days since he’d last been out of his robe. Quickly he pulled on jeans and slipped on a shirt. Before the kid’s quarter ran out, Michael took down his number, scribbling it on the wall above his nightstand. He ran a washcloth over his face and called right back.

Even with his window closed, Michael heard a faint ring from the street below before the kid picked up the phone. As the Blueboy confessed he had nowhere else to go, Michael walked to the window again and saw the kid’s face still tilted up toward his window. Michael told him he’d throw down his keys.

Soon, any late hour “It’s me” was all it took for Michael to let the Blueboy in. No sad tale of brother and fists required. Few words at all, the language of bodies simply enough.