Work Text:
I wake up and sit on the bed and look at the menacing clock on the wall. It is noon. There’s no other sound in the entire home except for the annoying tick of the clock’s second hand. I have to take the battery out of that damn thing. My back aches, I want to sleep on.
On and on and on and
There’s the tram with its annoying bell ringing and the tracks click-clunking underneath its metal wheels. I hate the tram. I hate this polluted city. I hate this tiny apartment. I hate this small room. I hate that wall over there. I need to write my paper before the deadline is too close. I need to sleep. I need to eat. I take a seat at my desk. I need a desk chair, because this one from the kitchen is hurting my back; the timber pushes into my spine. I stare at my reflected image on the computer’s screen. I look like shit. Great, now it’s me, as broken as before, only in blue. I open my document. I start typing. The little black line flashes at the end of my words, accusing me of stupidity. I believe it’s right to do so.
Everything I write is shit.
I moved to this filthy capital to work with the best professors and they fucking hate me, my ideas, my writing, my style. Maybe I should move back home and start raising sheep. Maybe I should start working at a grocery store and see my life as it really is: a meaningless row of shitty characters that appear like foreign hieroglyphs on a yellowed screen. I’m exhausted.
I slept for fourteen hours straight.
I have to write my thesis. I can’t write my thesis. The tram is back with its chimes and bells and kids coming back from school with their grandmas or mamas or papas. The wind puffs up the curtain and it looks like someone’s hiding in there. I just want to be free to think and write what I believe in. My schooling is stopping me. The weather’s too hot.
The door opens. He’s home. Hey, did you eat? He asks. I shake my head. He soothes me. His presence is soothing. He is beautiful and strong. Did you write something today? No, I did not, but I can’t tell him that. Yes, I lie, and my voice comes out raspy from not talking for so long. Want some water? He hands me a full glass. I drink up and my mouth feels better. He takes the glass away and he hugs me. I touch his hair and he squeezes his mouth. You stink, let’s give you a bath. I purse my lips. He wrinkles his nose. Alright, a shower then.
I rise to my feet and get dizzy. For how long have I been sitting here?
Okay, I mutter, and he smiles with his cute mouth, his eyes shine, his hand caresses my forehead and pulls out my hair tie. He smells like a flower. He looks like a flower. He kisses my cheek and seats me on the edge of the bathtub to brush my hair.
He is so good to me.
He is too good to me.
Why is he so good?
What if one day he stops loving me and never comes back to me? The panic of the possibility of him leaving creeps into my throat and I can’t breathe, my eyes gasp for air and the cold cracked sink trembles under my squeezing palm and he stares into my eyes and hugs me. It’s okay, he says. I’m right here. He’s here alright. Why is he here though? I love you, Eren. No bad mood will ever change that, okay? I look into his pretty eyes.
He adjusts the water to my favorite temperature and helps me sit in the tub. I rest my forehead on my arms, over bent knees. He kneels on a towel and lathers shampoo into my hair. The water pressure is too low and he massages my scalp with his perfect fingers. I close my eyes. The water comes out warm behind me; my back gets a bit cold from being wet. His fingertips rub my hair clean, he hums a song and I love him so much. I love you, I whisper. He leans over and hugs me as wet as I am. I love you too. You know that, he says. I have to finish by the end of this summer, or else I’m a failure.
I lean back. He combs my hair with conditioner and uses soap to massage my chest, my arms, my armpits. Hot water runs under my left leg and he readjusts the temperature. He washes every inch of my body with care and love. He reaches my groin and my dick responds and twitches in his hand, but he ignores its state and my stare and goes on to apply the herbal foam on my legs and on my feet, under my knees and under my thighs. He helps me to a squatting position and he rubs my nape, my shoulder blades, my spine, and goes down and reaches my ass. He washes me there too, and I’d object, but I can’t and I love his caring hands. He rinses my hair; I forgot about the cream that keeps my mane from tangling. He cleans my face. Do you want to shave? He asks. I shake my head. It’s too much; my stubble isn’t that bad yet. He rinses my body with too little pressure and helps me stand. The water stops. The drip-drip-drip ends too when he hands me two clean towels.
He wipes the chipped mirror and covers my body with a green towel. Then he wraps my head with the yellow towel. I hate those towels. They are old, ugly, rough to the touch. I’ll buy new towels when I get a job and stop being worthless. We get to the bedroom and he closes the window, blocking the distracting noise. The room smells like clean sheets. When did he change them? I don’t know.
Could you cook a chicken stew like my mom’s? I ask. He fills up the plates with his food. It’s always good food. Your mom makes that stew; I can’t, so I won’t try to imitate her. Now we eat this. I nod and smile. Thanks, I say.
He smiles and eats.
I smile and eat.
I’d talk to him, but I’m too tired. I’m lying in bed, drifting slowly into sleep on the soothing tick of the clock’s second hand.