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“I don’t want more flowers.”
She turns her back to Ray, to the beautiful bouquet, wilted by her words. But it was nothing to the wane she saw in his eyes, painted by her frustration. She doesn’t really mean it. The flowers made her room feel more alive. And the gesture was...kind.
But no matter what he gave her, he still took.
“Don’t you like them?” he asks, the quaver in his voice nearly making his words, break.
She says nothing and just touches the edge of the curtain that masks the window she’d thought about breaking before. How hard would she have to hit it? Would she survive the three floor fall?
The thought had always been fleeting. All she had to do was play his dubious ‘game’ inside the phone, and out, and wait.
A rustle behind tells her he’s set down the flowers. The gentle pat of his steps tells her he’s here.
Wait, for what?
“I picked every single one for you,” he says, the words so close they touch the back of her neck.
She shivers.
“I just want you to be happy. Don’t-don’t I make you happy? Isn’t-“
He falters. She feels a hand brush her arm, gloved fingers restlessly seeking a hold on her as if he doesn’t know how to touch.
“Isn’t this how you make people happy?” His voice is slightly higher, strained. Fingers pressing harder against her arm. “No. Not people. You. You.”
She shrugs his hand off. But that was a mistake.
“What. Wait. No-no-no-“ Palms spread across her back. Shaking. “I can make it right. Just - just tell me what to do.” They move, they edge, clawing down her back with him. “Please-“
The night black window reflects Ray. His wide, starry eyes, wet with fear; his pink tipped hair, almost shaking with him; his shoulders, rolling, as he moves. Down. And down, until he disappears at her back, and onto his-
-knees.
He exhales softly, longing, as he rests his head against her thigh, needy fingers clinging onto her hips. Eyes close, lost beneath the curled mess of his hair. But he doesn’t need to see anymore. Touch is his eyes, her mercy his commander.
“I beg you,” he whispers between her legs. “Teach me, tell me, what I must do.” He pauses, a shuddering gasp breaking his words, the hitch of his voice. “Command me to make you happy.”
She looks at his cloying hand, scratching, scrambling at her soft hip. She bites her lip. “Anything?”
“In my power,” he breathes against her thigh. His breath is hot. Erratic. Lips damp. “ Anything.”
The tip of his glove is pushed off from his fervour. She touches the edge, and pushes it back on, firmly.
She smiles.