There used to be a lot of floods
Before they built this dam

He should have seen it coming. This was the reason why...
Why he put himself behind the lens of the camera. He was
always... Jonathan used to say, well, he only said it once
but when he thought about it, to himself, he liked to
pretend his brother shared many pearls of wisdom with him.
But anyway, Jonathan used to say- You always hide behind
that lens, because you're too afraid of living. And then he
tossed the party photographs down on the bed, shouldered his
kitbag and slapped a hand on Saul's shoulder. And then he
went and got himself killed and Saul never got to show him
that there was, in fact, one picture of him on that roll,
and that he wasn't always hiding because here he was. It
didn't matter. He knew Jonathan took that one.

But Jonathan wasn't the subject here, anyhow. He wasn't sure
what the subject was. Maybe it was Andy. Or maybe it was
Joseph. Or maybe it was, most likely, him. Because he was
always the masochist. Always attracted to those flames, like
a moth, like... Like Icarus. Flying until his wings melted
and he crashed into the deep blue sea. But there was such
vulnerability that captured his... He's like to say artistic
eye because guys don't talk about hearts and feelings.

Joseph... He said, the week before they bought their tickets
that Saul was too compassionate, which is a weird thing to
be for s sociopath. And then he tapped one thin finger on
his forehead and said "The reason I don't give you an answer
is because you don't know yourself." Did he not know? Well,
he'd known. But where did that ever lead him? Nowhere good,
anyway. There were too much "Can't" and "Won't" and
"Shouldn't" to think of, that he could accept the fact that
Joseph was there. Sitting on the sofa in his parents' living
room, cradling a beer in his wide, thin hand, a skeleton
hand, and looking at him intently with big blue eyes. Blue.
It was always guys with blue eyes, like the ocean, where
he's always losing his breath, and pretends wings, and
strength.

And then there was Andy.

You ran from my reflection
Waddled over near that boat
To her house.
Every night, every night.

Sometimes he thought that it was so ironic that Jonathan
died in the war. That maybe he should perform the right,
biblical act and drop on his sword. Better than being...
Well. He was living on borrowed time, especially in such a
disastrous world. Everything he had was borrowed. His name,
his life, borrowed from someone he didn't even know. So when
Andy came and shoved a mirror of himself in his face... The
first thing he thought was 'how should I react?' instead of
just reaching, and grabbing his hand, and begging he'll
stay.

He had to go. Well... Not like Saul didn't know. He watched
the door slam behind his back and then retreated quietly to
that place next to the big window, where pillows lay
haphazardly and the camera was long forgotten on the table.
He held it in his hands and it was freezing from the icy
breeze, seeping through the window. Just... How long was it?
A couple of hours? Just then he was holding it up and
capturing Andy as he talked, laughed, sighed, tilted his
head, slept naked among a heap of pillows. Was this the
essence of Andy's life? And if so, was he a part of them?
Because Andy laughed at his words, reacted to his thoughts,
sighed at their similarities. Slept of exhaustion, named but
marked with Saul's fingertips, everywhere he could print
them. He was a part of that. He must be. But he wasn't in
any picture. So he set the camera on the table, on top of a
book. Went, and grabbed his priciest whiskey bottle, the one
he was saving for his special talks with Elaina, and a
glass. He set the camera on a self timer, and started
drinking. With each snap of the camera he winced. Every one
of Andy's pictures in his mind was replaced by a violent man
with filthy palms, touching what was, for the first time in
years, his.

Later, he developed everything. In his makeshift darkroom
hung pictures of Andy, laughing, pictures of life when he
was there, and pictures of Saul, head on his arms, the glass
in his hand, eyes closed. Death for when he's gone.

Wasted all the time
Waiting for no one
Don't be so cautious
Water washes away many things
But I can't come clean
No, I can't come clean.
Oh, I can't come clean.

He knew none of it would matter in three days, or next week,
or in a month, when Andy knocks on his door again. And it
didn't matter when he learned about Andy's arrangement, and
it didn't matter when he caught him at the Babylon, getting
high. He said nothing. He acted as if he didn't know. He
could imagine Joseph's face, if they were still best friends
and if he ever dared to tell him about Andy- Saul Heber,
patron of the fucked, a God damned modern Sisyphus, ripping
his chest open and ripping his heart out every night, after
his little whore is gone.

Because Joseph was brutally honest, and Saul knew it had its
own seeds of truth in it. But did it matter? Mythology and
religion clashed and clawed in him. He wasn't Sisyphus. And
then again, he was. He was Sisyphus, and Icarus, and the God
damned king of Israel, losing his mind and pulling ghosts
out of the ground to assure him he's alive and well.

He was hurting himself over and over again because he was on
a feeling overdose and he did not want to let go. Because he
wanted Andy in every imaginable way, he wanted to touch him,
and look at him, and talk to him, and fuck him, and save
him. He wanted to lock him in his apartment and never let
that awful man touch him again. Saul was a photographer. He
saw through make up and he noticed the way Andy winced when
his fingertips brushed a blackening bruise. He wanted... He
wanted to burn. He wanted to burn and scream and kill.

So he drank.

He drank, he took pictures, he wrote, he looked at Andy at
those rare times the other stayed over and slept with him,
on his shabby mattress, and cursed his world, and his life,
and this... Universe. He wanted to grab Andy's hand, and
kiss him. He wanted to wake up late on lazy Sunday mornings,
wrapped up around each other, and drink coffee slowly,
because Saul was good with coffee. Because Saul was good
with nothing more than coffee, music, movies, vinyl records
and photography. It wasn't enough to sustain Andy but for
the time being Andy stayed. All Saul could do was wish for
lazy mornings that will never happen and normal
relationships, sit there and watch Andy, and wait for the
tide.

We're gonna drown
We're gonna drown.