Page 42 of My Lovely Tragedy
I kept the act of cleaning him as impersonal as I could, if only out of respect, but my eyes were anything but. I greedily absorbed the very sight of him. Weak and vulnerable. Desperate and lost.
Every moment was transcendent.
Brooklyn is perfect.
“Darling crow,” I coo from beside him on my now sweat-stained mattress. Brooklyn’s slowly leaving his mark all over my life. Staining his way across my universe.
“Sop callin’ me that,” he grumbles, not for the first time. I tug on a stringy lock of his hair, undeterred.
“I don’t want to. I quite like it.” What I don’t tell him is the role he plays in my most recent story, wholly inspired by him and all he is.
My muse. My inspiration. My hypnotic allure.
Every discovery I procure is another lance unearthed as soon as I am able to continue in his story.
It’s magnificent, really, the way it is all unfolding. Brilliant and unlike anything I have ever been able to articulate before.
“It’s stupid,” he mumbles into the blanket, words heavily muffled. I click my tongue, silently reprimanding him but amused all the same.
“It’s not. Come. Time for a bath.”
He doesn’t bother responding—and I didn’t expect him to. It goes this way every time. The moment I mention getting out of the bed, he shuts down, fearful of the very prospect of removing himself from his safe place.
And I understand—so much more than he thinks.
“I do not wish to rip you from your sanctuary. It’s the last thing I would dream of doing.” I curl his hair behind his ear, the pad of my thumb dropping to tug on the nearly closed stretched lobe of his ear. “But you can become ill if you don’t clean yourself soon, and I do believe that would make things worse for you, beloved.”
He huffs after a long pause. His shoulders tighten, preparing. And then, he flips the blanket back.
A whiff of putrid body odor wafts in my face.
I smile, even as Brooklyn catches his own scent and grimaces. “Jesus fuck, I stink.”
My smile broadens. “You do.”
He snorts. “Thanks for not sugarcoating it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling.” I hold my hand out. He grasps my left, then my right, arms shaking from misuse as he pulls himself into a seated position. His eyes roll back as a wave of what I assume to be dizziness hits him.
“Woah, shit.” He breathes deeply and heavily, bearing through it until it passes. After a few moments, his eyes crack open, meeting my gaze immediately. “What’s with the nicknames lately?”
I bounce his question around on my tongue as I help him to the ladder, eyes darting from his face down to his legs to make sure they do not give out on him. “I’m going to descend first, and then you follow.”
“I can walk down a ladder,” he argues petulantly. I pointedly draw attention to his legs, weak and shaking beneath him. He follows, then his cheeks bloom into a lovely, vibrant blush. “Yeah, whatever,” he concedes, making me chuckle.
I never take my eyes off him as he follows, ass poised just above me, rounded muscles bunching and flexing, even in baggy, dirty sweatpants.
Everything about this boy drives me mad with intrigue.
As he nears the bottom, I wrap both hands around his slim waist and help him with the final steps. He doesn’t brush my touch away—as I expected him to—and it only brings the flush of more intention.
After grabbing a glass from the kitchen, I follow him down the hall and into the bathroom. He glances over his shoulder as I shut the door behind me with a soft click, carefully releasing the knob. His eyes are bloodshot, lids droopy. Those terribly beautiful bruises highlighting his periorbital skin.
“I can—” I step up to him, cutting his words off with a simple look. Brooklyn’s shame magnifies, and as I touch the tip of my tongue to my upper lip, I realize it tastes nearly as lovely as he does.
“There’s no need. Let me.” It’s not a question, but Brooklyn takes it as such, regardless. And I expect nothing less from the stubborn boy he is.
His lips twist in contemplation, though we both know he won’t refuse me.He can’t.
