Saturday, 19 March, 1988

Mac appears to always be the reason why I cannot sleep, I have concluded while trying to go to sleep last night after the excursion at the straight bar. The two days leading up to my first meeting with the group members, the two days leading up to the trip to the ice cream shop, the night after the straight bar adventure, and every night that I am not with Mac is sleepless because of him or rather the lack of him. But now it's even worse, because I crave him more than ever. I know he feels the same as I feel.

Normally, I would be skeptical like I always am -- or usually am, in this case. I would remind myself that the purpose of the excursion to the straight bar was to disturb the scene by acting as gay as possible, so therefore Mac kissed me, because not even fulfilling the stereotypes associated with homosexuality can beat an actual exhibition of homosexuality. That is what I would drill into my head to convince myself that he does not love me, persuade myself into not broaching the topic in case I was wrong about it. However, the reason why I doubt Mac only kissed me for a political motivation is because he lingered on my lips. Charlie and Elijah told him multiple times that we had to bounce, but even with the threat of imminent danger, he had to be forcibly removed from my embrace.

Somehow I don't even care if I'm wrong for once, because he is my best friend, and even if he doesn't love me romantically, I know that there is at least some type of love that will bind us together always. He wouldn't let me go over a simple misunderstanding that he provoked. He would be understanding of why I thought what I did. But that's not the case, because I know he is interested in me romantically.

I pondered this new knowledge all night, and that is why I could not sleep. I can handle restless nights, though, as I am not easily tired, and any trace of fatigue in me can be cured with a simple cup of coffee in the morning or a can of soda if it's later in the day, which means that I had no qualms about contemplating last night for many hours in the dark. Each thought pointing towards Mac spilled deposits of warmth into my body and sprayed my cheeks with a rosy glow.

I walk downstairs for breakfast with that same rosy glow, having heard my mother stirring in the kitchen and deciding that it's an appropriate time to make my descent, as there was no morning grogginess to shake off if I didn't sleep at all and don't have a problem with tiredness.

I see that I have no need to ask my mother to help me prepare some breakfast, for she's already in the middle of mixing a bowl of chocolate chips and pancake batter while staring, utterly shocked, at a newspaper resting in front of her on the counter. I can't see what day it's from, and I wonder only because she has a habit of picking up old newspapers and catching up on the current events or the not so current events, so I have no idea what she's appalled by, and I begin to grow nervous that it's something I was involved in -- something about AIDS. Sometimes I have irrational fears about things that I am a part of but don't want certain people to know I'm a part of, and this is one of those fears. I try to return to the concept of not expecting the worst -- I have unjustly decided that since I recognized the clear signs of reciprocated love, I can do that process again with anything life throws my way. This is evidently not true, as I realize while standing at the bottom of the stairs with that deer in the headlights look until my mother beckons me over to help her with breakfast and to, judging from her furious expression, scold me for whatever she read in the papers.

I scoot around the kitchen counter cautiously, eyeing the paper to find out what my mother is looking at, and hiding under the disguise of absently investigating as I pack up the bag of chocolate chips to put away, which is another distraction to avoid facing my mother directly.

"Harlow, have you seen this?" she asks, holding up the paper so that I can't even escape from it by the cupboard, and just as I predicted, it is about something related to the AIDS Crisis struggle, although it's something from Washington D.C., so I can pretend as though I took no part in it.

"No, I haven't, actually. Is that an old newspaper?" I ask, still feigning innocence, but my mother, unswayed, interrogates me further; she will stop at nothing to ensure my safety.

"This is the kind of thing you participate in, isn't it, Harlow? That whole AIDS business?"

I don't appreciate the way in which she said that, but there is no time to fight the nomenclature, because this budding argument is not about the proper usage of words, rather about how she feels about this "whole AIDS business".

"No, Mom, that was in Washington D.C. I wasn't involved in the slightest," I inform her, but she doesn't care in the slightest, because she is drawing up that whole reputation by association concept.

"But this is the kind of organization that you are involved in, and that's an issue for the both of us," she persists, and this is where I come to understand that winning this debate is not going to be so easy.

I scrunch my brows in angered confusion. "How is it an issue?"

My mother sighs, frustrated that I do not already know the answer to this question. "I have told you throughout your entire life that protesting is not safe for you as a black man in a city that's so populated, meaning that there are a lot of policemen who could harm you, and what do you do? You go and join an organization that holds protests like these" -- her finger slams condemningly into the paper where the article is printed -- "without remembering what has been drilled into your head since day one."

"It's not dangerous, I promise," I plead, becoming less defensive and more desperate.

"Sometimes protests are the most peaceful things on the planet, yet the police still show up. I cannot allow you to keep going to these group meetings."

I'm almost pouting, which must look absolutely pathetic, but it's for a good reason. "But Mom--"

"No," my mother states firmly. "That's the final say in the matter."

I pretend to agree, heaving my shoulders then trudging despondently to the kitchen table and sitting down with my head in my hands, but in reality there is no way that I could ever abandon my friends like this, not after all that we've been through together, not after we formed this emotional bond to each other, not after I just confirmed my passion for one of the members and am now feeling the most connected to him. Even if this means I have to sneak out at night, I will do it. And I do. When it is night and my mother has retired to her bedroom until the morning, I tiptoe out of the house, hop on my bike, and make my way towards the apartment, damning the consequences.

https://youtu.be/W3JJxS0gNkE

The Manhattan air runs cool at night, as any northern city shows, but that does not deter me from making the trip to the apartment. All I focus on is my destination. Not even the rolling sounds of my bike tires crack into my skull. What I need is an escape, not a nice promenade through Manhattan at a quarter to midnight. The night is far from silent, although it seems that way to me for some reason. It's a strange atmosphere, an atmosphere that I have no business thinking about at the moment. My sense of urgency seems to speed up the travel, although the apartment isn't very far from my house anyway, and I reach it soon enough.

Even though I have a key, I opt to ring the doorbell so that I know I will be received by someone to whom I can gush about my dilemma and how we can proceed from there, and the person who ends up receiving me is the person I wanted to be received by the most, the person who inadvertently contributed to my stress about my current problem.

The door is opened slower than it usually is, considering it's midnight and the people from the inside need to wake up to answer the door for me, but I could not be happier to see the familiar face of Mac, clad in a plain white t-shirt and flannel pajama shorts with the slightest hint of bed head, probably from napping on the couch after almost pulling an all nighter. Upon seeing me, his lips curl languidly into a sleepy smile, but it only lasts a few seconds before I rush into the apartment and connect my mouth to his with the same passion and power as an animal that hasn't eaten in several days.

Mac is a bit startled, but he recovers quickly and adeptly. We slowly advance farther into the kitchen so that the door can close, repositioning ourselves against the counter without severing our bond. Drops of pleasure of every variety splash onto my skin at different moments -- down my neck (where violets sprout under Mac's touch), across my jaw, collarbones that he reveals by tugging my t-shirt a bit lower, locations slightly off from my mouth that he pays no mind to perfectly catching. Somehow I find his recklessness a sexy part of the performance.

It tastes similar to the first and most recent time that we kissed, back at the straight bar, all that roughness and lack of fucks to give about what other people demand from Mac. His hands -- strong, nimble, protective -- brush through my hair, tangle in my shirt, travel wherever they please. I can feel the flame on his lips, and I share mine with him. We move as one, indulging each other. It's utterly blissful. This is what Mac meant when he told me after the excursion at the straight bar that homosexuality is an art form.

When the fire dies down into a slow rhythm onto our lips, Mac retracts slowly with eyes sparkling with adoration for me. He slides his hand down my hair, where it comes to rest on my shoulder as he asks me, "Would you like some cola, Harlow?"

~~~~~

A/N: that was,,,,,so sweet

~Dukutu