Page 43 of My Lovely Tragedy
So, before his mind twists itself in knots, I urge him further in my direction. To give me what I want for the sake of his autonomy. “Let me take care of you. Just as I have been. You deserve the reprieve of responsibility for yourself. I am here, Brooklyn. You’re not alone. Lean on me.” I drag my palm along his rough cheek, eyes nearly rolling back at the scratch against my sensitive skin. I curl my fingers around his skull, blunt nails lightly massaging his scalp. I dig in. “Fall into me.”
Red-rimmed, puffy eyes peer into me, seeing, yetnot quite.He looks a decade older than his twenty-seven years. The harrowing weight of depression taking its toll. It latches itself to my heart—that very look in his eyes—where I know I shall keep it,treasure it,until my dying breath.
“Just promise you’ll catch me,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and whispered. Vulnerable and imploring.
I take a step forward, brushing my chest against his bare torso. His head falls back slightly as I lean down, just enough to brush my nose with his, sofuckinggreedy, it makes me sick.
Because he can’t fight back. Won’t tell me no.
“I already have, darling boy.”
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
TOBIAS
Once the temperatureof the water is exactly where I want it, I plug the drain and turn toward the cabinet, only to come face to face with a nude Brooklyn.
His sweatpants, sans briefs, are pooled around his ankles on the black tiled floor. And though I have seen him unclothed many times before now, it was always with a detached, analytical standpoint. To clean and take care without too much… yearning.
Now, I allow myself a lingering once over, absorbing the structure of his naked body. Muscle mass lost from not eating and moving around enough. His stomach has hollowed marginally, bones appearing sharper and more pointed, but he is still just as beautiful as the drunken mess of a man I met a few weeks ago.
It’s strange how quickly someone, or even a situation, can change everything I have ever known—and have it feel like home.
I knew from the moment I laid eyes on Brooklyn that he would uproot everything in my life, every facet of myself. But even knowing so hasn’t lessened the impact. Howdeeplyhe has buried himself.
How much he means to me.
How desperately I need him—and how I will do anything to keep him.
“You’re lovely,corvus,” I tell him sincerely, eyes just to the left of his mouth—which twitches, though I cannot be sure if it’s in disdain or pleasure.
Only time will tell, I suppose.
“Latin, right?” he asks as he steps into the water. ‘I do words for a living’echoes in his drunken voice. Pride swells at his intelligence. Anequalmind.
“Yes.” I grab a bath oil from the cupboard, drizzling it into the water around Brooklyn. He sits with his knees to his chest, now hiding his manhood. A blatant display of his discomfort.
Vanilla wafts into the air, the scent enhanced by the heat of the water as steam fills the smaller room, fogging the mirrors. Dampening my skin.
As the basin fills, Brooklyn slips further down, legs straightening and dropping into the water, appendage left uncovered either from the lack of care—which I wholly doubt—or his body’s need for rest, which seems the probable culprit.
His head lulls to the side, resting along the edge of the tub. His hair fans around him, strands sticking wherever they may fall, weighed down by the water.
I pull out a few washcloths, two towels, along with Brooklyn’s toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.
“So, this is why you always smell like vanilla,” he murmurs. I barely hear him over the roar of the water. I step closer, then chuckle.
“Actually, no. I was not aware I smelled of vanilla,” I murmur, filled with delighted curiosity. Brooklyn huffs, hands floating along the water’s surface, fingers dancing with the flow. I turn the knobs, ceasing the current.
“And honey,” he adds, voice sounding louder now that the silence is so tangible.
“Honey and vanilla.”
He sighs, eyes now closed. “Yeah.” A long stretch of silence. One eye cracks open. “Hey, when did the power come back on?”
I chuckle, amusement alighting my eyes. “Before the cell service came back, beloved.”
He harrumphs but doesn’t comment. I reach for an array of soaps, bringing each to the lip of the bathtub, then drop to my knees, cloths in hand. I dunk one into the water, shuffling closer to Brooklyn to grab his nape, my favorite place to touch on his body, and pull his head toward me.
