His hands are in my hair.
It started in the hospital, with those long cool fingers gently stroking my head and the soft drone of his voice telling me it would be all right. Of course I didn’t believe him, but I did enjoy it when he kept running his fingers through my hair. I even let him call me child, let him call me anything he liked, as long as those fingers were in my hair.
Drying out, sobering up, withdrawal, call it what you want, it’s all a bitch. He’s stronger than most, I’ll give him that. Carried my big ass to the bathroom when the shaking started and my body turned rebel. ‘Course I was thin, I’d lost weight since I’d been cooking all my meals in a spoon, but overall, I was still a pretty big guy. I seem to remember spending a lot of time in there, sitting on the can with a bucket between my knees, both freezing cold and sweating at the same time, and his hands never left me, never stopped stroking my hair, and his steady voice was the anchor that held me, even as I screamed and cussed and swore up and down that I’d kill him if he didn’t bring me another hit RIGHT FUCKING NOW.
When I had purged myself of the poison, he put me in the tub and scrubbed away the blood and sweat and nastiness caked all over my miserable form, washed it all down the drain with the past. And when I was clean and warm and dry and wrapped up in fluffy white robes and surrounded by crisp white sheets, I drifted off to sleep with those cool fingers stroking my hair and that even voice murmuring to me and calling me child.
Because, really, that’s all I am to him. There’s a much bigger discrepancy between our ages than there ever was between me and you, and when you think about it, at twenty-two, I really am little more than a child.
It’s so easy to become complacent here, back in the Castle of Lions, surrounded by his paintings and tapestries and the comforting aroma of shaving cream and spice, lying here with his hands massaging my back, soothing the muscles knotted by stress. When his touch softens and the palms run down my sides, moving now to gently grasp my waist, I only hesitate for a second before tipping my hips backwards to give him access. Coran saved me from myself, came and got me when no one else would admit to knowing me; this is the least I could do to return the favor.
So I’m here on Arus again, and it’s good to have Nanny’s home cooking, although I’m packing on the pounds, eating to fill some emptiness inside that I can’t even remember is there. Even when my fat ass won’t fit into my jeans anymore, he looks at me with indulgence and piles second and third helpings on my plate. I love the way his blue eyes sparkle at me as he fills my goblet with cranberry juice, since I can’t be trusted around wine, and I love the way he comes towards me in the garden, in the cool of dusk, taking my arm and walking with me back to his chambers where he fills me with his slick heat, and I sigh and moan and scream his name, helpless with pleasure. His touch takes me beyond my loneliness and misery, and I lose myself with him, as if it never meant anything to me, as if I never saved it for you. I wake up the next morning and the sheets are cool and his fingers are cool as they stroke my forehead, and he murmurs softly to me and calls me child.
I’m content to stay here for now, slumbering in this soft haziness of fat and plenty. I’m fooling myself, of course; I could no more love him than I could love myself. But we’re getting by, using each other to put our nagging doubts to rest, and it’s easy to forget about you when his hands are in my hair.
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