Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

Neal found that it was exhausting sitting at Carlos Ferrari's bedside in the Paraná hospital and listening for the next shallow breath, holding his own breath until Carlos' next one came—never certain there would be a next one and knowing that at some point there wouldn't be another one. The musician's breathing had become so shallow and the waiting so tedious in the dim sterility of the Argentinean hospital room through the night that Neal fancied he was able to relive a day of their life in each of the spaces between one uncertain breath and the next.

He knew that the time could become perpetual between breaths at any given moment. The doctors had said that it could be any time now. He had wanted to move Carlos down to Buenos Aires, to a more modern hospital and a more experienced set of doctors, but Carlos had forbidden it, saying he'd been born and raised in Paraná and wanted to die here. Such was the respect that the city had for his music that he was receiving the best care they could give him here—at no expense. Carlos had never been one to accumulate money and goods.

Of course he had accumulated Neal, and now, after twelve years, was fading away under the death sentence of pancreatic cancer, leaving Neal with nothing other than memories—or so Neal assumed. Neal didn't begrudge this, but he also knew that he wouldn't receive the regard and support from the people of Paraná that Carlos had. He'd be left, destitute, in this isolated country where he'd not yet, even after twelve years, been able to fully master the Argentine dialect of Spanish—well, the Paraná dialect, which was distinct from what they spoke in Buenos Aires and of little use to him if he wanted to make money from music in the capital city.

Long after that last breath had been whispered, Neal sat, holding Carlos' hand. Carlos had been everything to him this past twelve years. Neal had given everything up to follow him from Charleston to Argentina—and then to wherever else in the world Carlos' renown as a musician had taken him.

Neal didn't cry at the finish. He was all teared out—and a bit numb. He was just grateful that Carlos, who he had loved well and mutually satisfactorily for over a decade, was mercifully released from the pain he had endured to manage "just one more" composition. Carlos had dedicated the composition to Neal.

Neal felt the pressure of a hand on his shoulder, and some instinct told him that it was Peter Wentworth, even though the three of them rarely—but explosively when it occurred—had met over the years since Spoleto in Charleston.

"You are just a bit late," Neal said in a flat voice. "He's gone."

"I've been here from time to time over the last week," Wentworth said. "I flew down not long after I heard he was ill. Thank God it didn't take long once it was inevitable."

"Yes, thank God for that," Neal murmured. "You have been here for a week but didn't make contact with me? I didn't know you were here." Neal was hurt. Wentworth could have given him some support through this ordeal. Had Peter forgotten everything they'd gone through? Was he abandoning Neal as well?

"I couldn't bring myself to contact you—not until . . . well, you know, out of respect for your relationship with Carlos."

"Yes, I understand," Neal answered. And he did understand when it was put in that light. In all the time the three of them were together, sexually, it had been Wentworth who Neal melted to. Neal could concentrate on pleasing Carlos when it was just to the two of them, but he naturally gravitated to Peter when he was added to the equation. But both of them realized that Neal was there for Carlos, and both of them had restrained themselves in respect for the musician whose talent had brought them together. Wentworth had even declared that they should meet rarely, to avoid the temptation. It was OK that they fucked with Carlos there, but Wentworth really wanted to have Neal all to himself.

"There are no impediments any more. Can you come away now—to my hotel?" Wentworth asked.

"Yes," Neal said, letting go of Carlos' lifeless hand for the last time. There was nothing left here for Neal anyway—at least for this time. There was no reason not to go with Wentworth.

Wentworth fucked him on the foot of the bed in an old, exclusive hotel with large rooms and a shaded balcony. Open French doors led out onto the balcony and the unexpectedly comforting sound of the busy street noises below and let in a breeze to caress the steaming bodies of the fucking men. Neal was on his back, his legs being held raised and spread by Wentworth as, his forehead plastered to Neal's and his eyes capturing Neal's to catch every nuance of Neal's response to the working of the cock inside Neal's channel, Wentworth adjusted his stroking technique to cause Neal's eyes to slit the most and his moans to deepen the farthest.

Wentworth had put a CD of Carlos Ferrari's music on while they fucked, which both men found comforting and arousing. Always in tune with Carlos' music, Wentworth harmonized the working of his cock with the texture of the tune playing on Carlos' CD. This is the first time they'd done this to a recording, though. In times past, Carlos had controlled the fuck with his own singing live.

Afterward, the two lying in each other arms stretched out on the bed, turned slightly toward the French doors and the cooling breeze on their lightly sweating bodies, Wentworth murmured, "Did Carlos ever tell you how we picked you out—picked you up—in the first place?"

"No," Neal answered, surprised. "I didn't realize there was a story to that. I just thought you gauged me as easy—rightly. I still can't believe you were assured enough to just ask me straight out if I took cock. And I can't believe that I answered 'yes' straight out and that you jacked me off right there, in the crowded auditorium during the concert. It wasn't so much that I was easy as that I was vulnerable at that moment."

"Yes, I was told you'd be easy. But I also was told that you weren't really promiscuous, wasn't a rent-boy type—that you'd be sweet and with a sense of innocence, albeit willing and pliable."

"You were told? Told by whom?" But just then, the image of a long ago lover—not his face, but the slenderness and grace of his body, the long cock, slightly upturned—entered his mind. "Professor Ambrose? Clayton Ambrose?"

"Yes, Clayton. I knew Ambrose—through Spoleto, of course. I was looking for someone to service Carlos while he was at Spoleto in Charleston. He played with so much more inspiration when he had a young man to fuck him—and the coupling of men to watch. The videos on the Internet were not working. I told Ambrose of my need—I didn't realize at the time that it was my own need as well, but of course it was—and he said he was leaving Charleston and had a relationship with a young music student—you—that he regretted just walking away from. He offered you because he thought it was what you needed, not just because I needed someone to service Carlos during the concerts. I gave him the ticket to the concert to give to you. I hope you're not—"

"No, it's fine," Neal whispered, putting the finger of one hand to Wentworth's lips as the fingers of the other hand went to the older man's rejuvenating cock. "I did have my own need at the time. But I felt like such a slut just to give it that easily."

"Neither of us thought of you as a slut. We both could see your need. You were sweet. Carlos was especially taken with you—although I shouldn't say that. I was taken with you too. But I had host responsibilities. Carlos wouldn't have seen you as a slut to have asked you to return to Argentina with him."

"I can be a slut, though," Neal said, with a little laugh, as he moved his lips down Wentworth's body and swallowed his cock.

Wentworth fucked him this time doggie style on the bed, covering him close from above, as Neal, cheek to bed and arms outstretched in total surrender, gazed out to the blazing light beyond the edge of the shadowed balcony and thought, with appreciation, on his life with Carlos—but also on the restraint he and Wentworth had had to observe, except for the explosive occasional meeting as Carlos watched them fuck. His thoughts also went to his present, uncertain existence.

"You seem sad. Carlos wouldn't want you to be sad at his passing," Wentworth murmured when they once again were stretched out in a close embrace.

"I'm not sad for Carlos. I'm said for me. I gave him everything. I am empty and alone now. I have no idea what to do now. Everything went to Carlos. I don't regret that, but I should have kept something for myself, done some planning, especially in these weeks when we knew the end was coming for Carlos."

"You weren't left with nothing," Wentworth answered. "Carlos has been schooling you in the music since Charleston. He has taught you more, brought out more of your talent, given you more useful experience, than you could ever have learned in that college. You can go on tour yourself now. I can mentor you, just as I discovered Carlos down here, brought him to America, and lifted him up into the international ranks."

"You would do that for me?"

"I've been aching to do that for you. You've been ready for years. Carlos and I discussed that. We were about to offer you some independence and exposure anyway. Yes, I'd do that for you—and you also don't need to be alone. You know how I feel about you. You can come away with me and—"

"Shush," Neal whispered, putting a finger to Wentworth's lips again. "I can be easy for you again. The answer is yes."

Gently pushing Wentworth over onto his back, Neal reached over to the nightstand for another condom and to switch on the CD again, bringing the soft tenor of Carlos' guitar-backed crooning into the room with him. Saddling his channel on Wentworth's sheathed cock, Neal began to ride him slowly as the shadows lengthened out on the balcony—knowing that Carlos' song would increase in volume and intensity as they fucked, knowing that Carlos wrote this song explicitly for this purpose and was watching them from above with approval and arousal.