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My tear stained cheek brushed against the collar of Helen’s shirt. I pressed my mouth against it, trying to drown out the loudest of the sobs, that jerked my head forwards swift yet violently. I could barely see him in the dark, but I knew I was leaving wet stains on the soft fabric, that I pulled closer to my face. I didn’t want to wake him up. I choked out another sob, tasting my salty tears running down my mouth as I curled up against Helen’s limp form.
The feel of safety was tainted with my sadness, tore down the walls I built to hide under my skin, until all I could feel was the anxiety bubbling underneath. Crippling fear, of all the things that could go wrong when something so perfect was handed to my shaky hands. I was already scared of losing Helen, questioning the truth in the feelings that blossomed like weeds drowning my chest. I hadn’t felt like this in a long time. We’d have to melt, mix, and hang our souls up to dry to feel satisfied. And now I was scared of how much I truly wanted him, how I loved the most breakable things.
I was making something out of nothing, letting my fear roll me up into a ball and consume me, with no reason to believe that something would go wrong other than my utter insufficiency. I gasped for air and then choked on it as I felt his hand brush against my neck, moving to tangle itself in my hair. My train of thought was interrupted by Helen’s movement as he awoke. He turned, laying on his right side, in a way that he would have been facing me if my face wasn’t buried against his chest as I weeped.
He draped his arm around me, and for a long moment all I could hear were the sounds from outside, the wind blowing and the trees moving, dogs barking in the distance—and his breathing, soft and even. I felt a twinge of guilt, knowing I had woken him up, mixed in with the relief. “What’s wrong?” He spoke softly, his tone carrying no hint of anger. I had heard it in his voice before, sharp and dangerous—yet ,now, he didn’t appear at all annoyed. I was startled for a moment, before I realized he had asked me a question.
“It’s..” I tried to speak, my voice thick with tears, muffled against him. I moved my head, separating my wet eyes from the even wetter fabric. I shifted, my gaze now meeting his eyes, glinting in the dark. I felt his right arm brush against me as he moved, his hand caressing my cheek. His fingers became wet with my tears, as he now held my face with one hand, the left one draped around my neck, resting on my shoulder. All so tenderly.
My mouth remained agape, trying to figure out the right words to explain my state. “You can tell me later” Helen responded, understanding my silence. He pulled me closer, now my cheek was brushing his neck. I could feel his pulse. “What do you need right now?” He added, softer, almost a whisper. He was so tired. So was I, but too upset to sleep. “Just hold me” I answered almost immediately, drowsily. Helen’s words, laced with concern, warmed me inside in all the places where I was cold.
In response to my words, he pulled me closer until our bodies were touching, both our arms and legs intertwined. He breathed against my hair and I closed my eyes against his bare neck. I could smell his skin, it had a hint of metallic-ness, blood, that no amount of water and soap seemed to be able to get rid of. It made my stomach churn, but I felt safe nonetheless (for the most part). I cried, still, letting myself feel the fear and let it go. Like waking up from a nightmare. It all felt so silly in the morning.
My lips found their way to Helen’s, still tasting of wet saltiness. I kissed his lower lip, my jaw brushed against his chin with friction—I felt his stubble rough against my skin. My hands entangled themselves in his messy locks of black hair. I felt the pressure of his fingertips sinking on my face, refusing to let go. He bit my lip; I pulled his hair. We kissed, messy, sloppy, desperate, bloody. We pulled away, gasping for air, as I released his hair from my grip. He fell asleep first, and I felt his breathing on my skin as I too, drifted off.
— — — —
I woke up to a cup of coffee being dangled in front of me. I took it with both hands, taking a big sip of the delicious, bitter caffeine. Helen was facing the other way, staring at the television screen. I squinted, reading the small letters with details of the news. They referred to Helen as ‘Bloody Painter’. He turned around with his arms crossed, in a way that his dark blue jacket wrinkled around his elbows. He was smiling, an odd look on his face. I grinned back. The yellow light of the hotel room faltered slightly every now and then, leaving the room looking grayish—I guessed it was around six thirty.
I finished drinking quickly, setting the cup against the small, wooden bedside table. Aside from that the room was mostly empty. I stood up, switched shirts and made my way towards Helen, standing by his side. He saw me coming, stealing glances from the side, and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. We walked, quickly, outside and got into the stolen car. It was Helen’s turn to drive (strangely, mine was always ‘the next time’). I turned on the radio, searching for a rock station. He started driving, way faster than he should, considering he was on the run. We’d switch cars soon.
He turned around for a second, facing me with a wide grin. “So? Tell me everything” I raised an eyebrow. “Why were you crying?”.