I don't know if I should touch him. Or comfort him, or what. I just know, if it was any other situation, with anyone else, I would have pulled that trigger.
I jump out of bed and grab the gun, prepared to go on a hunt. He must have something that can calm him down. I take a stab in the dark and enter the bedroom at the end of the hall, surmising this is where he sleeps. If and when he sleeps.
The bed is made neater than a pin, and the room looks almost deserted. But I check the medicine cabinet anyway. There's only aspirin and antacids. Damn. I place the gun on the vanity top, and my heart literally cracks in my chest. He chose a revolver to end his life. A firearm that's loud and messy. Not a neat automatic with a silencer. The kind of piece I was going to use. He wanted to make a statement with his death. Blow his fucking brains out in the literal sense. Tragic. Tragic that someone as warm and wonderful as the Baz I first met could become the man in the other room. A husk of a human being begging for the end.
Out of sheer curiosity, or maybe conditioning, I check the chamber. Nestled snugly with eight bullets, I find it fully loaded.
It was no bluff.
At a loss, I drop my head and notice doorknobs on the vanity. I don't know what makes me look, but I do. I open the right side and discover a leather toiletry bag with a light coating of dust.
I grab the bag and rip it open, its contents normal. Toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant, and a little plastic bag with a handwritten note and two orange pill bottles prescribed to the name Benjamin Sabatino. I flip the bag over and read the instructions. The two different pills are to be taken together and at the same time every day. Do not deviate is written in bold caps. I nearly destroy the Ziploc bag as I fumble with the pill bottles, shaking one of each into my hand. Then I bolt back into my bedroom, leaving the gun behind.
I find Baz lying on the bed in the fetal position. He looks so lost and helpless, like a scared little boy with way too much facial hair.
"Baz, take these." I open my palm, but he bats my hand away, sending the pills flying. Fuck. Well, this isn't going to be easy, is it?
I pick the small pills up off the carpet and try again, keeping my fist closed until I know he's ready to swallow them. It's a fight. He doesn't want them. So, after several frustrating minutes, I take matters into my own hands. Forcing him onto his back, I pop the pills into my own mouth, squeeze his cheeks, and then French kiss him, using my tongue to guide them into the back of his throat and hold them there until he swallows. He coughs and sputters, but it gets the job done.
I don't know how long it's going to take the drugs to work, or if they're even going to work at all, so I just sit with Baz on the bed as he melts down, shaking and whimpering and pleading for it all to end.
"Baz, what else can I do?" I brush some sweaty hair from his forehead, a pink bullseye fading from his skin.
"Sleep," he murmurs, tormented. "I just need to sleep."
I think that's an impossible task as his eyes are as wide and electric as a coke addicts.
"Do you have sleeping pills anywhere?" Can you even mix sleeping pills with the medication I just gave him? I wouldn't know. Desperate to help any way I can, I decide to try the only thing that comes to mind. Come being the operative word.
I shush Baz as I unbutton his fly and lower his zipper. He watches me perplexed but morbidly fascinated as I pull down his jeans and free his cock. It grows slightly when I rub it with my bare hands.
"Mmm." Baz screws his eyes shut like he's in pain and bangs his head against the pillow. I ignore his crazy and work him with my palms until he's mostly erect.
Then I put my mouth on him, and the sound he emits is one of agonizing pleasure. I really hope this works. It has to fucking work. I stretch my jaw and swallow as much of his mammoth cock as I can. I couldn't deep throat him even in Colorado; my mouth is just too damn small. I tried like hell though, the same way I'm doing now. Bobbing my head insistently, taking in as much of him as I can each time, I suck on his hard, thick length until he's groaning. When he begins to thrust his hips, I pull back, slowing the speeding orgasm. He doesn't like this, expressing his objections by fisting my hair and hissing profanities. His reaction doesn't intimidate me. I just keep doing the same thing over and over. Building him up to a climax and then demolishing the sensation at its foundation.
"Stevie!" he roars during the last go 'round, his body strung tighter than a fiddle from the orgasm denial. I know he's reached his breaking point, which is exactly where I want him. I don't hold back when he pulls my hair excruciatingly hard or pumps his cock into my mouth past the point of painful. I just take it until he spontaneously combusts, flooding my mouth with an outcry of come. The spurts seem to go on for hours as I swallow what feels like a rushing river of semen.