Out of Equilibrium: Love is Heresy

His fingers were driving me to wild excitement again. It was amazing how intensely I wanted him, all over again. I couldn't believe it. I'd had a number of lovers, but none of them had provoked this level of unbridled insanity within me. If desire was a drug, Cleric Preston was my new dealer, and I already wanted more.

"No more questions," he said, rolling on top of me, and I did not object.

***

I adhered perfectly to the injection schedule after that, retreating to the calm, neutral space that Prozium provided. I knew that the feelings I would have off-serum, longing, impatience, fear of discovery, would all gnaw at me relentlessly. But my work was a source of calm and intellectual satisfaction, and so I buried myself in it. I made no effort to contact Preston; I would let him decide when to resurface. But there was nothing I wanted more than to have him in my bed again.

In the interim, I copied the recording that we had made. I was afraid to watch it, but I did so to verify that he had been good to his word. He had. It was all there in its pornographic glory, a film that, if released, would not only result in our respective executions but might very well cause an uprising. The Insurgents would undoubtedly kill, literally, to get their hands on it. The idea of that scratched at the back of my mind, but I studiously ignored it.

I was just a recreational antidote dealer, not a revolutionary.

Two weeks later, Preston came back.

He was as ferocious the second time as the first. We didn't even make it to the bedroom. We screwed on the carpet next to my desk, the weight of his body bearing down on me as he thrust vigorously, his pants only undone enough to free his cock. I clawed at the heavy fabric of his uniform, smelling the scent of gunfire. And blood. I wondered briefly if he was using me as an escape from work, a distraction from the horror. But the climax that rolled through me, with spasms so forceful that my legs cramped, wiped the idea clean from my mind.

When I came a second time, he quickly followed. His eyebrows knit together as his eyes closed, and he made several deep, vigorous thrusts into me. Then he was still for a moment. He opened his eyes to look at me in a moment of bliss before his features slid back into their stony mask. I thought he might say something, but he didn't. He just kissed me in a way that made me ache for more.

But he rose to his feet and disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he had restored order to his hair and uniform and was fastidiously adjusting his sleeves. I didn't bother to get up from the floor as I watched him. He gave me a final look, his eyes wandering over my body, which was naked only from the waist down, then he turned and walked away. I heard the front door open and close.

He hadn't said a word during the brief encounter, other than my name.

***

He appeared again three days after that, another brief visit. Then I didn't see him for almost two months. I was starting to think that he wouldn't come back. But finally, there was that telltale knock on the door, one that would have made my heart race but for the serum. That time he stayed late into the night, and I went to work the next day doped heavily on stimulants with what felt like a slightly bow-legged gait. Even though the serum erased the last vestiges of post-coital satisfaction, it could not rid me of the physical sensation of relaxation and lightness.

However, I had a problem. It had now been long enough that my customers were complaining. I had never gone on such a long hiatus before, and some of them were seeking other dealers. This affair was bad for business.

I suspected that Preston already knew I was a dealer, but I feared what would happen if he didn't and found out. And even if he did know about my dealing, there was no way he could know the identities of all my clients. The recording gave me considerable leverage, but as a shield, it only protected me. I wanted to start selling again, but I felt that my greatest obligation was to protect the identities of my clients. It was that or stop seeing Preston, and I was so hopelessly addicted to him that the idea was unfathomable. Finally and with deepest regrets, I let my remaining loyal customers know that I would not be selling for the foreseeable future.

Preston continued to appear sporadically at my door. I never asked him where he got his antidote or the prophylactics, both of which were highly illicit items. It was clear from the way he avoided certain topics that such questions would not be welcome.

Sometimes when he came to see me, we barely spoke. But other times we made pillow talk after our exertions. On one such occasion, we lay exhausted in bed with our limbs and the sheets tied in a Gordian knot. I felt light, floating, and the evaporation of sweat from my skin was making me tingle pleasantly. I turned my head to look at him, my breathing still heavy. His eyes were closed and he had the smug, delicious look that he got from orgasm. I reached a hand out and pressed my palm against his stomach, enjoying the hard feel of his muscles.

"Are you ever going to tell me?" I asked.

"Tell you what?" He turned his head to look at me and his dark eyes ran over my skin. It made me shiver with pleasure.

"Tell me why," I said. "Why is this happening? I still can't believe that simple curiosity was enough to push you into apostasy and non-compliance. Obviously, you don't have to tell me, but I do want to know."

His face made that subtle shift into stony unreadability, and for a moment, I was worried he would just get up and leave. Instead, he reached for my hand and brought it down to his groin where his cock was already starting to harden again. I wrapped my fingers around it and began to stroke him, watching his face and enjoying the way his lips parted in response. He got another prophylactic and put it on.

"I want you on top," he said.

My breathing had just begun to slow but now it accelerated, and I felt a fresh rush of blood to my face and between my legs. Untangling myself somewhat awkwardly, I moved to straddle him. Taking hold of his now fully-hard erection, I lowered myself onto it, pressing him deep inside of me. The feeling of his hardness made my head fall back and my eyes close.

"Azrael," I whispered. "Oh God, Azrael."

"Move," he commanded.

I opened my eyes and lowered my head to look at him. I reached forward to grab his shoulders and began to move. He let out a low moan as I slid myself up and down on his cock. It felt so good that I closed my eyes and bit my lower lip, my thighs steadily pumping. I had completely forgotten my question when he spoke again.

"The answer to 'why' is Grammaton Cleric Camille Barns," he said.

I stopped and looked at him. "What?"

"Did I tell you to stop?" he asked.

I didn't answer; I just started to move again. It was hard to listen as he continued to speak, but I willingly did as I was told. I was so slick, and riding him was already starting that sweet, steady climb within me.

"Cleric Barns was my Shepherd," he continued. "She was to me what I am to Gibbs: the whet stone that sharpens the knife to its final edge. She was brilliant, excellent at her work, and if I could have, I would have admired her. I didn't know what admiration was. Shortly after I completed my training with her, it was discovered that she had become selectively non-compliant and was engaging in sexual activities. It was a major scandal. Even I wasn't supposed to know. She was quickly and quietly executed. But," he said, his tone getting lower, "before it happened, I found out and went to see her, to ask her why she had done it. I knew that I shouldn't have: it was my first act of apostasy."

My rhythm faltered as I heard this, my mind wanting to focus on the story, but he wouldn't let me. When my motion slowed, he took a firm grasp on my hips and began to move from beneath me, driving himself upwards into me. It made me cry out in pleasure.

"Touch yourself," he commanded.

I obeyed, bringing my hand between my legs and stimulating my clit as he thrust himself into me. I wanted to hear more, but I understood now that he was only going to tell me in his own strange way. And I was growing increasingly distracted by the anticipation accumulating within me.

"Why," he said, but his voice was uneven now, fraught with lust, or emotion, or both; I couldn't tell. "I asked the same question you're asking me. She said I would never comprehend it unless I tried it. She said the experience of sex, affection, and of, of love, would always be an abstraction without firsthand knowledge. That there was no answer she could give me, no way to understand, without it."

I was getting close, and he rolled us over so that he could be on top and have more leverage. I wrapped my legs around his, hooking my ankles into his calves, and continued to stimulate myself. He was moving fast now, pounding me vigorously, and I was nearly at the peak.

"Yes," I whispered, "Azrael, yes."

"Then I met you," he said, his voice ragged and deep, a barely discernible rumble.

I opened my eyes to look at him. He started to come before I did, his heavy, dark eyebrows pressing together and his thrusting becoming harder still. The sight of it was the final push I needed, and suddenly, I was shuddering, tumbled about and disoriented by the intense pleasure of it. He brought his mouth to mine for a kiss, but all I could do was moan into it incoherently, spasms raking through my body.

When it passed, we lay together, entwined and twitching.

"I resisted the idea," he whispered, "but after you came to the Cathedral, I knew that I had a path to understanding what Camille meant. And in a way, I did it to honor her memory."

And so I was coming to know the man behind Preston's stony mask. Because of him, I came to associate the odors of sweat, gunfire residue, and blood with trembling orgasms and the delicious smell of sex. The rest of my life continued to function like clockwork. I let myself depend on the serum to soothe my anxious waiting for him and to ease the ache in my heart.

***

Then came the day when I opened my door to Preston's familiar knock and found myself staring down the barrel of a weapon.

The knock had been no different, but even without the gun aimed at my face, I could see that something was very wrong. Preston stood in my doorway looking every inch the Angel of Death for whom he was named. His uniform was ripped and sliced in places where knives had cut through its fabric and into his flesh. What remained of it was covered in blood and dirt. He occasionally brought a weapon with him when he visited me, but now, in addition to the one aimed at my face, the butt of a high power rifle was visible over his shoulder and a bandoleer of small explosives was hung across his chest. His face bore its usual stony expression, but it was smeared and splattered with blood that I knew wasn't all his. But beyond all that, it was the look of horror in his eyes, of rage, that told me he was off-serum.

I slowly backed away from Preston and the raised weapon. He walked through the door then closed and locked it, his aim never wavering. I was on my experimental dose, and I had made progress. My sexual response remained, but it was significantly reduced. And though I could not be afraid, I experienced a powerful sense of disorientation.

"What's wrong?" I asked. "What happened?"

His nostrils flared at the questions, and he didn't answer.

After a tense silence, I asked "Are you going to kill me?"

"I should," he said, his voice uneven and burdened with emotion. "I should kill you and turn myself in for judgement, excommunication, and execution."

"That doesn't answer the question."

There was more silence between us as we stared at each other.

Finally, he spoke.

"Everything used to be orderly, clear, organized." The words were hot with hard edges, like broken glass. "I did what I should, as I was told, as I had been trained. Before Camille, before you. Now, it's chaos. Everything in my world is a lie, including me. And maybe," he said, sighting down the barrel of his weapon at me. "Maybe if I kill you, I can find a way to put the pieces back together."

"You are going to kill me," I said. I could see it in his face.

"Yes," he said, with an air of determination. "I should have done it sooner."

Again, we watched each other in silence. I couldn't feel shock, pain, or fear, but I was struggling to believe what was about to happen. And I made a decision.

"I have a final request," I said. "I would like some antidote before you execute me."

His jaw flexed in agitation. "That would be cruel."

"To whom?" I asked, arching an eyebrow. "Perhaps I want to appreciate the full emotional weight of death. Perhaps I do not want to be robbed of my last moments by spending them in a chemically-induced state of numbness. Will you deny me this, after all that has passed between us? Because you are afraid to see me weep?"

He gave me another long stare, his finger still on the trigger. But he reached into a pocket, withdrew an injector, and tossed it to me without a word.

I snatched it from the air and pressed it to my neck. As the antidote coursed through my veins, altering my brain chemistry, it felt as though my body was seized by a severe physical pain. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I fell to my knees, clutching at my chest. Sobs rose up in me, but I didn't want to make a noise, so they shook me quiet violence.

"Are you afraid to die?" Preston asked softly, and I forced myself to look up at him.

"I-" I began, but I hesitated. I wasn't sure. Emotions were so confusing, so difficult to identify and pull apart as they wound and twisted together with no logical order. He was right that emotion was chaos. I scrambled to make sense of the maelstrom inside of me.

But as I looked up at his terrifying, blood spattered visage, I knew.

"No," I said, tears continuing to pour down my face. "No. I do not fear death. Death will be a relief."

"Then why are you crying?" he asked.

My throat ached. I knew the words I wanted to say, but it was hard to get them out. "Because... I love you, Azrael. I love you. And I don't fear dying, but..." I hesitated for a moment as the tears streaming down my cheeks redoubled. "But the worst imaginable thing in the world is that it would be you who pulls the trigger. Because I want, with such naked and unbridled desperation, for you to love me back. And I think what this feeling is," I pointed at my chest, "is heartbreak. And it hurts more than any pain I have ever known."

I dissolved, burying my face in my hands, my body shuddering violently as more sobs took me. I wondered if I should regret asking for antidote, but I didn't. I knew. I knew the truth now, even if it was only for a few moments.

I don't know how long he let me weep, how long he struggled with the decision, but the bullet I was waiting for didn't come.

He pulled me roughly to my feet, gripping my arm, and I blinked at him through my tears. He had put the gun away, and he pulled me against him with both hands, the bandolier digging into my flesh as he kissed me, tasting of blood and filth. For a moment, my whole world was complete, relief and joy coursing through me as I kissed him back.

Then I was very, very angry. I pushed myself free of his grasp and slapped him across the face as hard as I could.

"How dare you," I said. "How dare you."

I slapped him again, and again, and he accepted the blows without raising a hand. In my wild grief, I struck him on the shoulder, and he winced and grit his teeth. I realized I must have struck a wound, but still he did nothing to defend himself. My anger finally crumbled, and I stopped. He reached out for me, and I let him pull me in for a long kiss.

"I'm sorry," he said when the kiss ended. "I'm so sorry."

Then told me what happened.

The Insurgents, those who rebelled violently against the Church, had weaponized antidote. It was non-lethal, just an injection dart of the substance, but it was very effective against combatants who had never been out of compliance before. In a high-stress, violent situation and suddenly exposed to their own emotions for the first time, many of the Sacred had faltered. The altercation had turned into a chaotic massacre, and Preston had been hit with antidote early in the fray.

Ironically, it was our dalliance and experimentation with antidote that had given him the ability to function effectively. But nothing could have prepared him for the emotional toll of killing while off-serum. Worst was the fact that he found pleasure in it; he was good at his job and fulfilling his training gave him a deep sense of satisfaction. He had hated himself for it. The self-loathing had been the last straw, and he convinced himself that killing me was the only way to resolve the situation.

When he finished telling me the story, he kissed me again and ran his gloved fingertips across my cheek.

"I was wrong," he said. "I'm sorry." He grit his teeth with pain. "I need to report for medical attention. I have to go."

His limp on the way to the door was frightening, and he dripped a trail of blood as he went.

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked. "Should I take you in?"

He shook his head. "No, it would only raise questions. I can make it. I'll call Gibbs when I'm far enough away." He had reached the entryway and turned to look at me, his hand on the latch. "Aliya," he said, then paused, looking almost as haunted as when he had arrived. "I think I love you too."

Then he was gone.

I wouldn't have believed it happened but for the blood that I had to scrub off the floor.

***

After that, I did my best to resume a normal existence, an indifferent cog in a big machine. I went to my laboratory to perform experiments, cooked and ate bland food, performed my prescribed exercise regimens, and got the prescribed amount of rest. I followed the prescribed injection schedule and abstained from using antidote.

But I was a cog that didn't fit anymore. Something had changed.

I used to be content with the system so long as I could play around its edges, selling antidote for recreational use, taking it myself, and enjoying a small handful of occasional lovers. But after the last time I had seen Preston, the system chaffed.

The months stretched on, and he did not come back.

Sticking to standard Prozium helped. But somewhere buried in my brain was a heretical idea, not an emotion but a belief, that there was something wrong with the system. Something wrong with the Church. And the serum did not, could not, suppress a belief.

A belief that emotion, that love, was not just a recreational game to play for those who could afford it but something of profound importance to every human being.

It was heresy most grave.

I began to toy with the idea of contacting the Insurgency and how I might use my expertise to aid them. It was a crazy and dangerous idea, and I didn't have any idea how to find them. I wondered if some of my former clients might be the key.

But in the end, I didn't have to do anything. The Insurgency found me.

I don't know how they did it, how they knew I was a heretic, and I marveled at the timing. It might have been a coincidence. Or perhaps a disgruntled former client pointed them my way when I stopped dealing. Whatever it was, the end result was an abduction in the middle of the night. They must have hacked my lock, because I did not wake until a foul-smelling rag was pressed over my nose and mouth, and then I was not awake for long.

When I regained consciousness, my hands were bound behind my back and there was a sack over my head. I must have been unconscious only briefly, a good sign for my brain function, because I was uncomfortably slung over the shoulder of the person carrying me.