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The sweet reek of weed permeates his jacket, his hair, the pads of his thumbs. I like that smell. It reminds me of him, of hearth, of home.
He's singing again, too, that little mumble under his breath, and I can just barely make it out: "Oh, what can I say, when I've got nothing to say; when the day's gone away with the wind?"
And I want to pull him closer, kiss the bleach off his teeth. He doesn't need a mouth full of brightness, doesn't need to look pretty and prettier. And he doesn't need fancy toothpaste. He just needs me, and I need him, and that's all.
That's all.
Sometimes, when it is all too much, when the scent of him curls my lips, when his sleep-screams snatch me from my thoughts, when all I can do is hold him down safe to keep his limbs from flailing, I think: I am so lucky. I am so lucky, but it is all too much.
And a cry rips from my chest, and we are both screaming--his, from a million needles plunged into his milk skin, and me, from the hardwiring of my brain shorting itself out.
After, after.
We curl against each other. His touch is no longer a shock against my fingertips. We breathe. We breathe, and we are grateful for the air and the atmosphere which gives us enough to hold in our lungs.
The universe has given me a gift. I will protect him at all costs.