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He calls for me.
A soft “Hey, you awake?” over the ringing in my ears that starts up every time it goes quiet. When my brain shuts up and all I can focus on is how fucking quiet it is.
His voice drifts easily from his open door to mine. We’ve had entire conversations like this, laying in our respective beds with the doors open and our voices carrying. It lulls us to sleep.
“Yeah,” I say back, speaking it out into the universe: yes, I’m awake, I’m here. I’m ready for anything.
“Wanna come here?”
I don’t know. I don’t know what that means.
“Where?”
His response takes a moment, and his voice is softer. “My bed.”
I’ve already made up my mind that I’ll go to him. I knew that as soon as I heard him ask for me. I’d go to him no matter what. It wasn’t up for personal debate. But I waited a moment before speaking. I liked to draw things out. Tease him a little.
There’s a light on in his room. I follow it through the hall.
He’s in bed, curled in his blankets like a child with a cold, just his messy-haired-head poking through.
“T’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer, but he straightens himself in his blanket pile and slides over. His bed is bigger than mine. A double, maybe a queen. I sit down beside his hip, pulling my knees up and criss-crossing my legs.
He blinks at me. He sits up and leans over. He grabs a tee shirt from his pile of blankets and throws it over the lamp on the floor. A small, shitty, garage sale thing. Was probably here before he was. It’s the only thing plugged into the socket, and it’s cord is like a snake on the ground.
I’m distracted by the lamp, thoughts of the shirt catching fire and killing us both, I barely notice him moving to sit in front of me, slinging a leg over mine to get closer.
When I focus my eyes on him, his hair is wild. I laugh a little, bringing up my hands to smooth it down. I tuck tufts behind his ears. They spring back up. I do it again.
His eyes are droopy. He’s tired.
“Aren’t you tired?” I ask. I know, but I ask.
He nods between my hands. He brings his head forward to flop on my chest, his forehead on my collarbone.
My hands slip to his shoulders, I run them over his neck, thumbs in-front, fingers behind. I don’t squeeze, but I could.
He breathes against me for a moment, then he leans up and drags his bottom lip, open mouthed and breath hot, up my throat and onto my jaw. He mouths there too, kissing and licking me like a horny, spastic teen.
“Tyler...” My hands are in his hair again. Dragging him away. “You’re tired.”
He smiles at me, dreamily, then surges forward and kisses me on the mouth. Never done that before. Not sure how to handle that.
It’s short, maybe/possibly/could-be-perceived-as/perhaps friendly. So I’ll run with that.
I push him away harder now, laughing, licking my lips. He’s grinning too, a soft, safe grin. Like what we’ve done is okay, and mine to keep in the back of my brain forever until the end of time .
A siren goes by. It shakes up the air in the room.
We lie down and curl together. Now this, we’ve done before. This I can manage.
He likes to press his face into my throat and hold me around the back with both arms. He lays half on top of me, our legs tangled and fingers gripping and no idea where one begins and the other ends.
I drag my hand down his side and pause over his dipping hip. I curve my hand there, thumbing the jutting hipbone. A breath comes out against my collarbone heavy and hot as he relaxes against me, limp as a dead thing.
I stare at the ceiling. “Why’d you call me in here?”
He doesn’t move, barely breathes. Mutters against my skin; “this.”
I nod. “Yeah.” I turn my face into his hair. Breathe him in. “Yeah.”