Sometimes, it's like our feelings are one and the same.
I can't stand to be without them, and if two of us are together in one place, it's almost as if the heart-numbing loneliness of the third prevents us from accomplishing anything. We are one entity, and even in the frigid silence we can hear the thoughts of the others. In the overwhelming darkness that consumes this house, we whisper. On the wind we share secrets, fantasies, and thoughts. We all have our own ambitions, and an identity all our own, which is why I don't understand how we're supposed to do this.
Simultaneously, both Thompson and Cantebury gaze up at me, mirror images of each other. They lay across the bed we share, each laying on an extended limb with their fingers interwoven. Like mine, their starch white shirts are open, although theirs are beginning to wrinkle as they lay on them. On the left, our vests sit piled in a stack at the edge of the bed, folded and ready to be put away. Still, this minor detail is only a distraction from what's truly important…they're questioning me.
Hesitantly, Cantebury begins to speak, his lips barely moving.
Thompson then moves in, finishing the question the three of us are already aware of.
"You…won't hurt us, will you?"
Of course, they know my answer long before I can even move my lips to say it. They can tell from my expression, they can see it in my eyes, smell it in my breath. The connection between us is far too strong for them to truly not know.
"I would never hurt either of you."
They stare up at me, watching. If we all are one organism, I serve decision maker, the id, the primal instinct. They act as the ego, judging my actions and meeting my demands. In agreement, and in perfect fluidity, they both roll towards each other, on their stomachs. With their hands still locked, they attempt to hold my gaze, craning their necks to see over their own shoulders.
"Brother Timber?" Thompson begins this time, his mouth muffled in the plush pillow he lays on.
"You won't let either one of us….grow cold." the other finishes, his voice also muted.
They already feel the response.
With both hands, I reach up into the backs of their shirts, running my hand down their spines. Thompson is icy, yet Cantebury is contrastingly warm. It's unexpected, yet it's not a hindrance. I let my fingertips glide down their spines, and it's then I receive the same uncontrollable twitch from both of their bodies. Lightly, and in opposite directions on their backs, I trace along the hems of their pants, slowly working under the rim. With a sudden motion, I lurch forward, allowing myself to cross the border of their garments and access the soft skin under. With ongoing patience, I linger there, before moving around the curves of their hips, sliding my fingers around their lengths. Both of them arch, releasing a small gasp on either side. Slowly I inch forward, giving myself more room to work, sliding my hand from the base to the tip on the left side, and the tip to the base on the other. Satisfied, I sit back, removing my already dampened hands from their clothes and using my sticky fingers to ease down their trousers. Both of them are flushed, and with the same pleading glace as before, they look over to me, their mouths slightly agape. This time, they speak in unison.
We love you."
My feelings at this point are clear.
I raise the first two fingers of my left hand to my lips, my tongue greeting them. I coat them in saliva, intent on my promise not to hurt them.
My left hand suspended, I work on the fingers of my right, coating them equally.
"I love you too."
Quickly, I slide my fingers into their entrances, and a feeling of guilt briefly washes over me as they must clench the bed to relieve the pain. My digits are warmed, and their bodies constrict around me. After I feel they are prepared, I exit, and they, slowly, begin to sit up. Cantebury crawls towards the middle of the bed, shaking, while Thompson removes my own garments, lingering for longer than necessary. He then crawls in front of Cantebury, and they exchange a furtive look, as if they don't mean for me to be included. This will not do. Almost cruelly, I press myself into Cantebury, which catches him by surprise. Thompson gives me a look, but then, almost smirking, reaches his hand up and strokes Cantebury softly, teasing. Cantebury, flushed, his violet hair soaked in sweat leans down, licking Thompson's tip in an attempt for revenge. We all smile, despite the act we're committing, indulging in a silent, private laughter.
As with all other things, our connections bind us together.