Page 4 of My Lovely Tragedy
His breath is balmy, almost in excess as he pants. Body pressed to mine. Thick layers of corded muscle beneath the thin fabric of his clothing. Expensive, from the feel beneath my fingers, but not extravagant. More practical. Not a stranger to money, but he doesn’t care about his appearance. At least in this state, anyway.
Brooklyn’s bleary orbs catch mine with intent, and the world shifts beneath my feet.
I stumble back a step, hands dropping from his waist. Brooklyn stumbles but remains upright, his coat still hanging off one shoulder.
I clear my throat. “Tobias,” I tell him, stuffing my hands into my coat pockets as I dip my head down in a slight nod.
“God is good,” Brooklyn mumbles. I peer up at him through my lashes with fascination. “S’your name.”
“Hmm,” I murmur as he turns, feet slipping in the slush. I lurch forward, wrapping a hand around his elbow to steady him. He doesn’t even flinch at my touch, and my stomach fills with warmth.
We walk side by side, trudging through the blowing snow. “Not many know that,” I muse.
He shrugs, veering to the left as the movement throws off what little equilibrium he has. “I do words for a living,” he says, but he doesn’t elaborate. I find myself smiling, feelingseen.
“As do I.”
He harrumphs again, drawing a chuckle from deep within my throat.
“Fuck words. And fuck this life, ya know?” he bellows unexpectedly, nearly incoherent as he throws his hands into the air, stumbling again. I reach around to catch him just as he falls back against my chest. I grunt at the impact of his weight but manage to keep us both standing through sheer will. Brooklyn pants heavily, and I find myself mimicking his breathing pattern.
His body is flush against mine. Damp but warm in the surrounding flurries. I spread my fingers flat against his abdomen, feeling the rise and fall of every leaden breath. The hard ridges of abdominal muscle beneath my palms remind me of the keys on my piano, and it is nearly impossible to resist the desire of playing Brooklyn just to find out what melodies he could produce. What symphonies we could create together.
“How inebriated are you?” I ask Brooklyn, my mouth so close to skimming his ear, I feel the microscopic hairs against my lips. The tip of my nose grazes the shell, and it takes a willpower I did not know I possessed to resist nuzzling into his long, golden hair.
“’Nough to not know where I am in this decrepit ass city.” His chest flattens as he pushes breath from his lungs. “Just can’t fucking take it anymore.” I can vehemently feel the weight sitting on his chest. Buriedin.
“I can help you,” I offer, sucking in a breath of anxious anticipation. The words spill from my parted lips before I can stop them. Brooklyn stiffens, his shoulders hiking to just under his ears, blonde hair whipping across my face as the winds steadily increase in intensity.
The ice-cold snowflakes sting the bare skin of my cheeks like tiny little pinpricks, causing numbness to spread through my face and reality to sink in.
“S’not a good idea,” Brooklyn mumbles as he pulls himself away from me, stumbling down the sidewalk again.
I stare at his retreating form, vacancy washing over me as the white winds swallow him whole. Light swallowing dark. A true travesty.
And then, I’m following after him, ready and waiting for when he needs me to catch him again.
His feet trudge through the snow, white tuffs propelled into the air with every step. I glance around, the world now bathed in white. It’s glorious. Picturesque with the streetlights illuminating the sidewalk with blobs of yellow. The traffic lights switch between their colors. And standing in the middle of it all is Brooklyn, the highlight of serenity.
“Fuck, I’m gonna puke,” he mutters as he stumbles to a public trash bin near the curb. I quicken my pace, able to place my palm against his lower back just as he curls over and heaves into the opening, his muscles contracting as he retches and gags.
When he finishes expelling the contents of his stomach, he leans back against me, using me to steady himself as he sucks in variable breaths, exhaustion leaking from every pore.
I rub my hand up his bicep. Down. Curl my fingers into the crease of his elbow before trailing back up and around his broad shoulder.
“Let me take you home.” I don’t allow him to rebuff. I simply wrap an arm around his waist and throw his other over my shoulder. He grunts, putting all his weight on me, nearly throwing me off-balance myself.
I tighten my grip with a smile I can barely contain as I start the trek to my car, three blocks ahead.
“I don’t have a home anymore,” he mumbles. My heart constricts, my smile fading in an instant. I tighten my fingers on his waist, digging into his pelvis.
I’m going to give you one,I vow to him internally.
* * *
When we reachmy black Mercedes, I pull the fob out of my pocket to unlock it, leaning to brace Brooklyn’s weight, but before I can rebalance, he scoffs and throws his head back with a laugh, sending long blonde locks soaring through the air as I stumble. The flash of yellow amidst all the white is unlike any splash of color my mind could have ever conjured on its own.
“Of course, this is your car.” His comment throws me off kilter, and my foot slips on the curb as I bend to open the door. He doesn’t seem to notice as he slides past me, smelling of heat and sweat, to unceremoniously plop down into the leather seat.
