Ribs

"What's it like?"

In spite of my earlier instruction to sleep, Noel has been babbling soft nonsense into the space behind my ear for the last half hour. I have no reason to complain though, I never do, until the dreaded question is asked, "What's it like?"

I always say "What's what like?" even though I know what 'what' is.

"You know what."

"I don't."

"Recovery. What's it like?"

The question is a difficult one, it always is. Not that many people ask, they only ever smile. I think they're frightened of what they might hear.

"It's like getting over the flu." I finally say, "It's like you've been ill, and you know that all you can do is get better. There's no other choice left."

"You always say that."

"And you always ask the same question." I say, pulling on the bed sheets so that my voice is muffled. "You're the only one who ever asks."

"Yea, and I dunno' why I bother." I hear him sigh, exasperated, perhaps desperate. "You always lie."
"I don't lie." I turn to him, hurt. I don't lie, I never lie, I avoid talking about things, there is a difference.

Maybe I like make believe games, too.

"It's like forgetting." This game tastes different. "When I came home, this room was painted white and my mum had hidden all of my old stuff in that wardrobe. I don't like to open it." I tell him, "It's like forgetting."

I can't expect a solution from what passes his bitten lips, there never is one, anyway. "You're too young to feel like that."

"But I'm too old to still be living with my mother, it drives me even more crazy." I sigh, "I guess that's what happens when you're incapable of looking after yourself."

"Twenty five isn't old! Oh no, 'ave you gone more wrong than I thought?" He blurts, cracking a smile from me. "Old? Think 'bout how I must feel!"

"What? With all of your ten years in advance?"

"Stop! You're makin' me feel like Gandalf! I'll be gettin' all wrinkly soon, like an off grape."

I'm not sure whether to hate or love his ability to poke holes in my issues. With him, everything else seems so insignificant.

"Really, though," he says, quiet again, "you need to stop being so morbid and broken, I can't really work with that, it cramps my style, my vibe."

The wink in his eye tells me that he's only teasing, not that I'd have ever thought otherwise. After all, why else would he be here? He already knows what he's let himself in for, he's been through it with me a thousand times already. Kind of like one of his scripts. Kind of.

"What does a pointy ragamuffin like yourself see in a boring bitch like me, eh?"

"Dunno', guess you appeal to my darker side, or something." That grin is back, and so are those fingers looped in my pajama top. Cold hands on my warm waste, feels like fireworks, smells like Lush cosmetics and cherry shampoo and alcopops and everything that makes my belly tense.

Glitter on his skin, on my skin, impish grin, bright eyes and the "God, yea..." spilled so unashamed from his wet lips, telling me that I am more than his sideline, more than the people he fucks for fun.

"This is ludicrous." I hear him gasp, nose pressed to my temple. "I feel about eighteen years old, you need a bigger bed."

His giggles are strangled, smothered over my frantic breath as we fumble like teenagers over the small space of my mattress, his bony hips clashing painfully against mine as we dive for contact. Parted mouth, jagged and curled at the corners, his shaky breath, fighting for the quiet we need to so desperately keep, laughing until our ribs get tired.

He comes back, again and again, lovers spit left on repeat. Surely that stands for something. His lips bump clumsily over mine, greedy tongues dancing feverishly together, and I can still taste the hot chocolate.