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your hair was long when we first met

There’s a door, in the distance.

Larry thinks, at first, that this is it — the door that will take him to his new life, the pathway to his new existence. His higher, purer existence, Larry and the Negative Spirit until the end of all. This is what he always wanted; an escape, a renewal.

But, it seems, the Negative Spirit has other ideas before their transition into light. Beyond the door is — everything is —- everything is the same, glassy soft-reflecting floors with the celestial bodies around them spiraling and swishing in tranquility. The only difference now is the bed in the middle of the realm, metal shining silver headboard and blankets shifting between shades of blue.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh. You…”

It isn’t just the Spirit that wants this. The thought poured into his mind the moment he saw its body in his body, the moment he saw it in a form that can know touch, the moment he touched it. Larry has not wanted something this much in so long, so long. The Spirit, apparently, in its unpredictability and chaotic nature, wants this too. It makes it almost human, even if the comparison would offend it. It’s so good.

He turns to face it, its expression still blank and dead.

“You want to…?”

The Spirit is reaching out for him now, its hand resting on the sides of his own face, a mirroring parallel of position. He sinks into its touch, so weak for it, as it gives a hesitant nod. He can feel what it feels — yes, it wants to. Yes, it wants him. They would not be here if it did not want him.

The Spirit slowly crawls its other arm around Larry’s back, pulls him in, the kind of closeness that neither of them imagined they could deserve. Finding their redemption in the touch, the way his chest brushes against its chest, the insides flooding out — the Spirit kisses him again, warm and passion-soaked, with a fervor like falling to Earth. His lips stray from its lips, moving along the curves of its jaw — his own jaw, but that doesn’t matter right now — and down its neck. This makes it shiver, its head tilting to the side, giving him more room to show his desire.

It still can’t talk. If it could talk, perhaps it would beg for him, and if it begged for him Larry would give it anything.

He moves their tangled web towards the bed in the middle of the room, pushes it down onto the blankets and places both hands next to its hips to keep his body in the air — but the Spirit grabs him and unites their skin again, Larry falling and landing on its chest and stomach. The contact startles him —- they’re still dressed but it’s still almost too much — though he keeps going, rolling his tongue over the skin that rests under its ear.

He stops, sudden, and stares into its eyes. “Do you, um… do you need me to show you what to do?”

It nods, again slow and mechanical.

“Okay,” he whispers, an unintentional smile forming. “But… before we… is there any possibility you can… you know… change to look a little less like, you know, me?”

The Spirit blinks for the first time, and then its scarred skin fades into smooth blue flesh. It still wears his face and frame like an inescapable mold — his body is, after all, the only body it has ever known — but it is far enough divorced from his present appearance to be comfortable.

“Good enough,” he says, and slowly slides the suspenders down from its shoulders, slipping a finger underneath the waistband of its pants. “Is this good? Can we start here?”

It responds by guiding his hands lower, over the button.

“If you want to stop at any point,” Larry says, “just tap on the back of my neck three times, and we’ll stop, okay?” He pauses, considers. “Will you be able to feel this like I will? I still don’t really know how you… work. But I don’t want to do this if I’m the only one getting something out of it.”

It makes an expression for the very first time, a slight wistful smile curling up the corners of its mouth, and it nods once again, this time not hesitant, completely prepared. In Larry’s mind, he feels a pang of touch me, touch me, break me. It’s -- destructively loud.

“I’ve broken you enough,” he says, hoping that the words he heard were indeed from the desires of the Spirit. He climbs off of it, moves to his knees. “I want to make things good for us if we’re going to be here forever.”

He leaves the statement in the air and strips it down, presses his mouth around it hot and frantic. It’s surprising, when he hears it gasp at the feeling of Larry’s mouth wrapping through, his hand following, his head moving back-forth with cosmic force. It cannot talk, but it can moan, slow whimper-howls being drawn from its throat as Larry works. It’s good, he’s doing good. He is being useful. He hears a ringing in his ears, mind burning in cosmic movement: please don’t stop, touch me forever, stay with me like this forever. Its hands grab at his hair, controlling the curve of his placement. It’s already getting overwhelmed, growling now.

He takes it deeper, into his throat, and then pulls back, watching the wetness string from his mouth. When he meets its eyes, they are glossed-over and empty, and its head tilts up as if to say - why stop, I told you not to stop—

“Are you ready?” Larry asks. “Was that too much? I want to give you more. I want — I want to feel you, if you’ll let me.”

Another nod; go on, please; he undresses his own body, fresh to his chilling surroundings, and flips the Spirit gently onto its stomach. Hm. An idea forms within him. If this place can be affected by the mind—

With a wave of his hand, the Spirit’s body changes, and it’s ready for him. He wanted to do this part himself, to help the Spirit adjust to the feeling as it takes each digit — but he knows that would be too overwhelming for it in its first time, and he needs it now, needs this now, the release and the unification.

“Come here,” he says, rolling it back over. “I want you —” he moves to sit on the bed, resting his back against the headboard and gesturing to his hips and stomach, “—here. I want to look at you.”

He hasn’t done it before — like this, with someone on top of him instead of inside of him, and this too will require an adjustment, but the Spirit cannot give him that kind of pleasure, yet, it isn’t experienced enough. And — God, he thinks as it climbs over to straddle him, to press itself down against his cock chasing any shred of sensation it can find, this is better.

“Are you ready?” he asks again. It doesn’t nod, this time; instead it takes him in its hand affirmatively and presses all that Larry has inside of it, shuddering and trembling at how he feels. Oh. It’s getting used to this. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He places both hands around its hips, guiding it desperately upwards and back down. He tries to stifle his cries, to keep himself together when it cannot, but just as it is the Spirit’s first time being touched, it is also the first time Larry has been touched like this, in reality, for sixty crumbling years. He can barely handle it himself.

Soon it gets comfortable and begins moving faster on him, riding him beautifully, its face beautiful in the way its eyes can barely stay open in the present, its body beautiful tight around him, it is just so beautiful now. Its fingernails sink into his shoulder, pain and pleasure becoming one, a similar oneness to the Negative Spirit and Larry Trainor, embracing eternally.

It tries to move its hand to stroke itself as it rides, catching on quickly, but it loses its balance, stumbles to the side until Larry catches and steadies it. It looks frightened; Larry smiles softly, still in awe of the moment, still trying to comfort it. “Hey,” he whispers, “it’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

The Spirit exhales for the first time. Its eyes open and lock onto his, the intimacy of the gesture making Larry gasp and rock and buck. Its gaze unmoving, its vision entirely focused on him until its irises roll back into its head, its face contorting and quivering. God, Larry breathes, and then, “you’re so good,” he leans forward to kiss it, his lips ghosting again in their rightful place over its throat, “so good,” he pulls at the skin, bites down moderately, he will not push it past its limit but he wants it to feel good, “I didn’t know you could be this good,” he moves down to its collarbone, “but you’re so, so fucking… good. ”

It gasps, again, and fuck, they’re both so close. Its skin is flushed dark blue, hot to the touch, the touch. In his mind another fragment: Larry, I… this is… this is…. too much. This is—

“Do you want to stop?”

He isn’t going to question why he can hear it now. He wants it to be comfortable, above all else.

It shakes its head, no, no, no. Never stop. They can do this as often as they want now, their forms no longer bound to earthly limits. And the knowledge that he belongs to it now, that they can touch for as long as they want painlessly, the suffering shed down to the planet behind them — this is what sends Larry over, his body convulsing and shaking and convulsing and shaking until it, too, is convulsing and shaking in its release. He lets go; “oh, God, ” he breathes, “fuck, fuck, I— fuck, I lo—”

Larry has enough sense to stop himself there. The Spirit, still riding and soaking up every shard of pleasure it can grasp as it comes over him. This is its first time being touched and he’s done so well, he has atoned.

And then it climbs off of him, puts its head against his shoulder, a crazed lean. He swings his arm around it, holds it close. He can’t get enough of this, wants to remain here forever, the true ability to touch returning to him.

“Was that okay?” he asks, and it presses a kiss into his neck to respond.

They’re silent, in this position, for a while. With the Spirit it is always silence, an overwhelming silence accompanied by cacophonous crackling, but this silence resembles serenity.

And then: “Let’s stay here for a while,” he says. “Before we go back.”

It looks up at him.

“I just don’t want this to end.”