Stages
by ainm
Waking on the beach is very different from waking in the loft.
I ponder this idea while I'm at that stage of waking when you are aware of everything around you but before you are actually ready to open your eyes... and I realize that it is all a matter of stages.
There really aren't stages of waking at home -- the alarm rings and I get up, end of story. Even on the weekend, a louder-than-usual truck will go by or the phone will ring or something will get past the white-noise generators and I'm awake, no gradual rising through layers of sleep.
But here, napping in the sun without any distractions, I get to experience all the stages, with all my senses.
We managed to find a small sandy spot on the coast that was completely deserted, given that it's a weekday afternoon in early fall and school is in session. It's warm enough that I could go swimming, at least for a little while, though Sandburg said I was crazy -- but he can't turn down the cold the way I can. He poked around in little rock pools, calling out periodically to tell me of some find or another.
When I got out of the water and lay out on my blanket to dry off and warm up, he was making some bizarre creation in the sand -- row after row of small pillars of wet sand that he had dripped through his fingers. At one edge the columns were placed at random, but they quickly resolved into uniform rows, evenly spaced, though the piles? castles? horse droppings? were anything but even, but then the rows fell apart again and the spacing became random once more.
"Um, Sandburg?"
"Yeah, Jim?"
"I have this feeling that whatever you're doing has some sort of tremendous significance, but I'm man enough to admit I don't have a clue what it might be," I told him.
"Oh, yeah... well I was thinking about Qin Shi Huang's buried army of terra cotta soldiers, but then the whole thing got to me, thinking about the incredible use -- waste? -- of human resources that went into the whole project, and it just seemed too martial and confining and I had to mix them up a bit."
Only Sandburg.
Apparently I fell asleep while I was baking in the sun like one of Blair's soldiers, because the next thing I knew I was starting the gradual process of waking up again.
First I heard the waves... there's not much that's more soothing than the sound of the surf meeting the sand. There's variation to the sound, but only within a certain constant framework. Easy to sleep through, but yet the first thing there when you wake again. I like that.
Then the breeze -- that involves both hearing and touch, listening to the wind whistle softly by while feeling it brush over your skin... today it was just a gentle breeze, not enough to carry the sand with it and force me to dial down to keep it from driving me crazy.
The recognition of the air against my skin brought with it the next stage, the feeling of the sun beating down on me. I'd actually heeded Blair's warning and put on sunblock --though to be honest it still makes me feel like a sissy -- so I knew that I wasn't burning, but I could still feel the rays against me as if they were a physical thing.
Those sensations are all fairly low-level, automatic things, not requiring much in the way of mental processing, and consequently not bringing one too far out of sleep -- but far enough to let other sensations in on their heels.
I heard the birds next, some sea birds flying just offshore, scoping out their next meal. I realized that I was thinking about the birds, and therefore realized that I was actually awake. With that realization comes further awareness, though I still don't open my eyes.
Scent: of course the sea has an aroma all its own, something that after you've been at the beach for a little while you cease to notice, but I noticed it again as I slowly grew more awake. Just right today -- depending on the weather and the tide and who knows what all, it can be too fishy, too decayed, but today it's just crisp and perfect.
All these thoughts get me to thinking about waking up, and stages, and so here I am, stretched out in the sand, making my way through the stages of sleeping and waking, no pressing cases, a mid-week day off spent the best way I can think of, at the beach with my partner... sleeping was nice, but being awake to appreciate things is nice too.
Thinking of Blair is enough to bring me to another stage of wakefulness, and suddenly I find myself in a sea of Sandburg sensations -- he's obviously finished his army/not-army because I can feel the heat of his body lying maybe a foot from mine, can hear him making small sleepy sounds of his own.
And that's not all... as I tune my senses towards him I find that I can smell him too, tang of Sandburg over the tang of the ocean. But... this isn't just routine Blair-scent. And suddenly the feeling of lassitude that I'd had is gone; every part of me has woken up in reaction to the smell of Blair's arousal -- some parts of me more than others.
Still, though, I keep my eyes closed, savoring that stage of delicious excitement and anticipation. I almost don't need to open my eyes -- I've collected so many images of him over the years, tucked them away to review at will, Blair in every setting, in every mood... all except the way I want most to see him -- naked in my bed.
But I can imagine -- and I do, often, and now, and if I wasn't awake before, I sure as hell am now.
As always, the feelings start to slide toward frustration over what I can't have, but, somehow, never bitterness, because even if I don't have that with him, I do have so much.
But I can't help but wonder -- who is he dreaming about, who has him hot and bothered in his sleep this time? Someone I know? Someone famous? Someone faceless? I try not to wonder if it could possibly be me, but as usual I fail. Sometimes I'm so sure, it just seems so totally fucking obvious that we are everything to each other... but usually the feeling gets smacked down by his next round of skirt-chasing.
I need to open my eyes now, need to take advantage of being able to look my fill at him without him aware of it. We've slept in close quarters before, in good times and in bad, but rarely do I get to just immerse myself in him. I can tell he's still in REM sleep, can hear his hand clenching periodically, wordless little sounds coming from him, so I know I'm safe, ready for that final stage of waking.
As I open my eyes and see him lying there, sprawled on his right side, his face turned toward mine, it occurs to me that this might be the opportunity I've been waiting for... dreading... hoping for... running from...
If I make a move now, and it turns out that those times I've been so sure, I've really been dead wrong, well... we can chalk it up to being disoriented from sleep. Sorry, Sandburg, I thought you were, well, somebody...
But do I want to know? Is knowing that we can never go there better than false hope? What if I'm right? Certainly that would be a good thing to know, wouldn't it?
I sigh softly as I watch the breeze ruffle his hair, still long and beautiful thanks to some smooth talking on Simon's part about how the hippie look could get Detective Sandburg into places that the rest of us couldn't go. His eyelids flutter, and I wonder again what's going on behind them. Sometimes I wish I could just crawl inside him, learn him from the inside out, understand him, know him...
I can't stop the hand that reaches out to brush the hair away from his face. Is that a decision? I don't remember making a decision... is it really time? Time to introduce some chaos into our orderly rows of soldiers? What the hell am I even talking about? Suddenly I'm giddy and leaning toward him and touching those full lips with a single fingertip and damn but it sure seems like I decided something along the way --
"Jim," he breathes, eyes still closed, and I don't know if he's awake and knows it's me or if he's asleep and hopes it's me, but I can't stop now... I cup his cheek in my hand and feel the stubble that scrapes my palm and part of me is wondering what the hell I'm doing and part of me is wondering just how those whiskers would feel rubbing against other parts of me and why isn't he opening his eyes?
I thread my fingers into that amazing hair, rubbing my fingertips over his scalp, fighting the urge to just pull him to me and never let go... I realize that I've unconsciously moved so much that I'm in the sand between our towels, like he's a magnet and I've finally given in to the strength of his pull, and oh, god, it looks like this is it -- and my lips meet his, salty from the sea spray but oh so sweet...
...and then -- more than sweet, as his mouth opens and his tongue finds its way past my lips and slides against mine, and his hand is reaching blindly for me, and please, please let him know it's me, let him want me this much...
It's nearly impossible to pull back and look at his face, but I have to know, even as my gut is churning with fear and lust and hope and terror...
His eyes are huge, looking at my face, seeing me... confusion and need and god, how can we have gone so long without doing this?
"Blair" is all I can think to say.
"Jim," he says, firmly, confidently, and that's enough, that's all we need for now. Somehow we're both sitting up, arms wrapped tightly around each other, mouths fused together, and we can get to the talking stage later -- this is being awake, this is being alive, this is the stage we've been working toward for years. Finally.