Take it slow but don't warn me

It's still in the making but I'm hopiing to finish it off soon and maybe even re-write the begining because I'm not to sure I like it. but trust me it get's better.


You sit there, aimlessly plucking at the bottom of your coffee cup, fraying the edge. The usual low murmur of chatter in the coffee shop reaches your ears and you realise boredom has well and truly set in. Choking down the last dregs of your coffee and pulling a sour face at the bitter taste, you make your way towards the counter. Resting on your elbows and leaning forward, waiting for Robbie, the waiter, to grace you with his presence. You begin to tap your fingers somewhat spasmodically on the counter in front of you, as you over hear, what you assume to be, the endings of a conversation.
“For fucks sake, it’s not hard. Just get it right!” you hear Robbie growl and come storming out of the back room with a scowl firmly plastered on his face, mumbling profanities under his breath. The second he sees you he cracks a smile like a psychopath, you’ve always thought he was a little erratic.
“Hey, Indie. How’ve you been?” he stretches across the counter pulling you into an uncomfortable hug.
“Hey, yeah I’m good. Who were you just talking to?” you had no right to be so nosey but your curiosity momentarily took control of your actions and thoughts, as it often did.
“…Oh, Connor.” He answers after a considerably long pause.
“Connor?” you raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah, he’s my cousin.”
“Is he working here then?”
“Yeah, well his parents sort of kicked him out.”
“So what’s he doing here?” Robbie just shrugs and continues.
“I don’t know really, I think its just coz dad’s the only one in the family who could give him a job.” In one way, you’ve always sort of been a little jealous of Robbie. He’s one of three brothers and his father, although ruling with an iron fist, gave them everything they needed. And to top it all off, once each of them turned 16, they were automatically granted a job in his ‘family’ operated coffee shop. You, on the other hand, grew up with just your mother, who sadly past away when you were 17. It still kills you to talk about it and you’re now 20, leaving you to the conclusion that time isn’t the great healer everyone claims it to be.
You just mouth the word ‘oh’.
“But, just between me, you and the wall, he’s a bit fucked in the head, ya’know?” he whispers.
“How’d you mean?” you ask, generally baffled.
“He’s just a little freak! Its like, he’s always there but not quite. Anyway, what can I get you?” he swiftly changes the subject.
“…Err, a large latte to go please” you exchange money for the coffee and make your way towards the exit, well that is before your plans were foiled. He was so small you barely saw him.
“Oh, Oh my G-God. I-I’m so, I’m so sorry.” He knocked your hot beverage clean out of your hand and down the both of you, but mostly on himself, and in turn, you accidentally sent his serving tray flying. The hot coffee is starting to tingle where it came in contact with your skin and you are sure it must be scolding his. You both crouch down and try to collect the objects splattered on the floor. He whips out a small cloth from his grey apron and starts to scrub frantically at the floor, the apologies still flowing free from his mouth. You watch his delicate hand trying desperately to clean the tiled floor and you can’t help but notice just how perfect his hands are. Free from any blemishes and the colour of milk. Your eyes gradually work there way up his arm, momentarily stopping to admire the spatters of freckles on his fragile forearms. His small chest, rising and falling nervously under his too-tight-T-shirt. Your eyes continue there journey up towards his head, his face obscured by his charcoal black side fringe, falling freely over his features.
And you just stare.
And stare some more.
You wonder how long it is that you’ve crouched there, gauping at this beautiful creature but your unreliable sense of time and lack of a clock in the coffee shop informs you of nothing. But you know it was far longer then necessary because, by now, he has already finished cleaning the floor and is now standing. You also stand, reaching his level and it is just now that you realise he is no more then a mere boy, a delicate, skinny, pasty skinned boy, no older then 16. And you feel… weird. How could someone this young be this attractive? You snap out of your thoughts and zone back in as you realise his flower pink lips are still spewing with apologies with his head bent down and his eyes incapable of looking you in yours.
“Hey, kid. It’s fine, don’t worry ‘bout it” you still don’t seem to have put him at ease.
“Connor? Right?” you softly place a hand on his forearm. His whole body seizes and his eyes dart up at you, piercing brown eyes, peering through his fringe.
“Y-Yeah” he mumbles.
“Indigo, nice to meet you.” You extend your arm out for him to shake and he does so.
“You’re Robbie’s cousin, am I right again?” you bow your head trying to catch his eye line as you strike up a one sided conversation.
“Y-y-yes ma’am’” he just called you ma’am’! You can’t help but crack a smile at this.
“I’m not that old am I?” you ask in mock offence, not really expecting him to answer.
“Oh, oh no I-I didn’t mean it like that, I just, I was just trying-“ he stutters intensely and you look at him in all his childish beauty and find it too hard let him squirm in the uncomfortable situation he has landed himself in.
“I was just messing around, kid.” You chuckle light heartedly at just how sweet he is, and, after a while, you see a nervous smile pull at his lips. Though you are sure it’s just his politeness taking control again.
“CONNOR!” at the sound of Mr Baldens burly voice, Connors head bolts up and his eyes look as if they’re on the verge of bursting from his skull.
“Where have you been!?” Mr Balden storms over, seizing Connor by the scruff of his delicate neck, yanking him in the direction of the back room. Connors feet scramble relentlessly underneath him, trying desperately to keep up with his uncle. You’re left, a little stunned and bewildered as to what just happened. Not knowing what else to do, you just pick up Connors serving tray and take to the counter before leaving.
*
You slam shut the door to your car and begin your walk in the town. It was surprisingly busy for such a shitty day. You wonder through all of the busy shoppers, trying to grab a quick barging, and hug your coat tighter around yourself, in an attempt to keep out the rain that is beating mercilessly on your back. You don’t know why you even bother ‘window’ shopping and keeping up this whole charade, because you know you’re only procrastinating from doing what you really want, from going where you really want. You’ve been there every day this week. And you have every reason to go there, they serve damn good coffee. Well…they serve OK coffee, and its warm inside. You push the large glass doors open and stop at the coat rack, unbuttoning and shimmying your overcoat off your arms, you hang it up and make your way to the counter. Its Robbie’s day off so Malcolm, his older brother, takes your order and tells you to take a seat and that someone would bring it over. You do so and take a seat on an overstuffed armchair in the back of the shop. You retrieve a newspaper that was left lying on the coffee table before you and start to flick through the pages, not really reading it. You peer over the top of it every so often, searching the room with your eyes for him. Gina, one of the waitresses, brings you over your order, leaving it on the coffee table. You thank her for it and tuck into your muffin, wondering off into your thoughts again. And as hard as you try, and as wrong as you feel, you cant help but think about Connor. And the way his dull grey apron wraps loosely around his fragile body, or the way his dark dusky hair falls to his face every time he writes down an order or even the way he tugs at the hem of his t-shirt when he gets nervous. But then innocent thoughts like this leads on to thoughts like how you long to touch every inch of his milky white skin or bite down on his perfect bottom lip or how…STOP! You know you mustn’t think thought such as these. He’s too young. He’s still just a boy, not a man. And the thoughts that stream through your head would violate him in more ways then his age should allow. You’re pulled out of your thoughts once again as, somewhere in the shop, something smashes to the floor. You jump a little and jerk your head around to see where it came from. Your eyes fall on a small body hunched over a pile of broken glass. Connor. He promptly darts behind the counter, grabbing a dustpan and brush, and scrambles back to the mess. But the loud commotion didn’t go unnoticed by Mr Balden, who raced ferociously towards him, hurling abuse and telling Connor just how worthless he thought he was. You felt your gut twist at what you were seeing. You so badly wanted to intervene but no good would have come of it. So you buy your time and wait for Mr Balden to stop laying into Connor before you got to aid him. You crouch down and startle him with your presence a little. No words are spoken, yet you make the perfect team. He carefully picks up the large shards of glass and places them gentle in the dustpan whilst you take hold of the brush and sweep up the tiny chips. You feel him occasionally look up at you threw the threads of his fringe and you blush ever so slightly. Once you’re sure you have every last piece, you stand, dustpan in one hand and brush in the other.
“Where’s this go?” you ask, gesturing with the dustpan. He stretches out his little paws to take it from you, but you just retreat your hands closer to your body. So the dustpan is just out of his reach.
“No, I’ve got it. But where shall I put it?” you ask sweetly.
“Erm, through, t-through there” he points towards the back room and you march of on your mission, Connor padding along behind you. Barging your way through the fire exit doors, you step out into the ally way, the rain still pissing down. The smell of dirt and urine reaches your nose, causing you to screw your face up. You struggle to open the first industrial size dustbin you come to, so you give up and just throw the glass into an old metal can, the type you see hobos using to make little bomb fires. You turn back to see Connor, his little body clinging to the doorframe, and cradling an arm to his chest. You ask him what’s wrong but he doesn’t reply, he just stares up at you with wildly frightened eyes. So you slowly walk towards him and grasp his thin wrist in your hand, prying it gently away from his chest. You gasp a little as you see a deep slash in the palm of his right hand, oozing blood, precious blood.
“Shit, kid. Did you do this just now?” he nods slowly, his fringe still obscuring your vision of his face. You wonder how you didn’t notice this before but you’re pulled out of your thoughts quickly as you see Mr Balden, glaring menacingly at the two of you. You don’t give him the chance to yell, or give Connor the chance to explain. You just seize his small wrists and pull him gently out to the back alley again, slamming the fire exit doors behind you, hoping Mr Balden will just give up and not follow.
“Give me your hand.” You demand, a little too sharply causing Connor to just retreat away from you.
“Sorry. But… please, let me look at your hand.” You facial features soften as a result of you sweetening your voice. He shuffle over to you, hand outstretched. The rain begins to pool in the palm of his hand, merging with blood, whilst you try to check whether or not there’s any remaining glass in the cut.
“I can’t see anything in there, but I’m no doctor. You should probably have it checked out or summing.” You advise.
“Thanks, but… but not now, I have to get back to work.” He mumbles, and before you have the chance to stop him, he scurries off. Leaving you, as every encounter with him seems to end, by your self.
*
“Fuck!” you dump the empty milk bottle in the overflowing bin, you swear you don’t even remember finishing the last of the milk, let alone putting the carton back in the fridge. Snatching up your keys and purse from the side table by the couch, you head for the door. As you stand on the porch, you sigh heavily at the sight of the weather. Rain has always made you sad, ever since you were little your mood always seemed to reflect the weather. You dart to your car; rain splatters dampening your t-shirt and start the engine.
The roads seem as if they were abandoned by any other human, all you can see are the small beams of light that the street lamps project. It’s just turned dusk so it’s not dark enough for you to need your headlights on but your vision is slightly impaired due to the heavy rain beating down on your car. You see as the corner shop you were heading towards nears you, and you pull into the bus stop on the opposite side of the road. As you enter the small shop, a bell dings as the door closes. You find the milk section straight away and head up to the counter, waiting for the customer ahead of you to stop arguing with cashier and get the hell out of your way so you can pay.
“I cannot serve you alcohol unless you show me ID.” The Asian lady debates from behind the counter. Just your luck, an underage kid trying to score booze. You wait behind the kid for so long that you start to assess him. Starting from the bottom, he’s wearing tatty old jeans slung low on his hips with the top of his boxers peaking out, a sopping wet grey hooded sweatshirt, hood up, and a Jansport rucksack securely fastened on his shoulders.
“Look, kid. Do you mind if I just pay for this and then you can go back to arguing?” you take a step forward and place the milk you plan on purchasing on to the counter. Upon hearing your voice, the kid snaps his head round, hair flicking in his eyes.
“Connor?!” your eyes widen.
“…Yeah, err hey.” He mumbles. The second he opens his mouth you could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath.
“You’re dripping wet.” It’s stating the obvious but… well you don’t really know what to say, it’s not like you expected him to be here.
“Yeah…yeah I err….” He trails off.
“What are you doing here anyway? It’s like half an hour away from your uncles? And well I mean there are a thousand corner shops closer.”
“Well, I’m not living with my uncle anymore.” He hiccups.
“Really? Why-“
“Excuse me!” The woman behind the counter interrupts. You jerk your head to see her, waiting impatiently for you to pay.
“Oh, sorry. This and twenty Benson and Hedges, please.” You push the carton of milk towards her, followed by a ten pound note.
“So yeah, Connor. Why aren’t you living with your uncle? Are you going back to your parents?” you direct you attention back to Connor but with your hand extended, awaiting your change.
“No, I err… I just didn’t want to stay there anymore, so I left.” He slurs slightly. You throw him a confused look before receiving your change.
“So where are you living now?” you ask as you walk out of the shop together. He doesn’t answer, just shrugs and begins to quicken his pace.
“Wait! So your not living anywhere?” you seize his arm, noting how cold he is, and pull him back slightly.
“I guess not” he murmurs, stumbling over a nonexistent bump on the pavement, you assume due to the alcohol. You keep a hold of his arm to help steady him.
“Look, kid. I can’t let you walk around like this, you’ll get your arse raped or something.”
“I…I…I-“ he doubles over and vomits on the side of the road.
“You what? Cant hold your drink down?” you joke, softly rubbing his back as he spews his guts out. He looks up at you through the tendrils of his fringe.
“Sorry” you utter.
“Look, come with me.” You pull him upright and guide him over to your car, to get him out of the freezing rain. Once inside, you turn the engine on and crack a window slightly.
“Is there no one else you know? No other family you could stay with?” you open your fresh packet of cigarettes, taking one between your lips, you light it.
“Not…not really.” You offer him the open packet of cigarettes and he goes to take one.
“Wait. Are you allowed to…” you retreat the packet away from him.
“Yes!” he pouts, offended.
“Sorry, it’s just… well I didn’t know.” You toss him the packet and the lighter and watch the way his beautiful lips curl around the end of the cigarette. The way he gently rolls his thumb across the lighter. The way he looks as if he’s in complete ecstasy as the hazardous smoke fills his young lungs. You suddenly have a maternal type instinct to snatch the cigarette from his paws, stub it out, tell him that he’s too young to be fucking up his health like this. But you don’t, you shouldn’t. After all it is his choice.
“Well… maybe….I don’t know, maybe you could crash at mine for tonight or summing?” you try to sound nonchalant.
“Huh?!” his head bolts up.
“Just, ya’know if you don’t mind crashing on a couch or anything, the offers there.”
“Y-yeah, yeah sure.” You’re glad he sounds eager cause at least this way you know you didn’t over step the line.
*
You help him get out of your car and guide him to your front door, as the alcohol seems to have firmly taken a hold of him making him, to say the least, a bit tipsy. Once you’re inside, he seems to just collapse-head first-onto your couch. You scramble around your pokey studio apartment retrieving a couple of blankets and a pillow for Connor and return to the couch only to see the most angelic sight that your eyes have ever been graced to see. He is lying on his stomach with his head slightly propped up by the arm rest, his mouth agape, hair in disarray and one arm dangling on the floor, yet he still manages to look handsome. You notice he is still fully clothed and he is still drenched from wondering around in the rain. You feel that to undress him, even in the most of innocent ways, would still be inappropriate. So you just perch your bottom on the edge of the couch and softly run your fingers through his sodden ebony hair, smoothing the pieces down as they nearer his delicate face. Gracefully, his eyes flutter open and he gazes at you, deep brown eyes.
“You clothes are still wet, kid.” You whisper.
“Why do you do that?” he asks.
“Do what, kid?”
“Do that! Call me kid? Coz I'm not a kid ya’know. I am a man!” right now, if it was any other person, you would be rolling around on the floor with laughter, but Connor looks too vulnerable to do that to.
“I know you are. I don’t know why I do it though; I guess its just force of habit. I think I picked it up from-“ before you could even finish talking, Connor leaned forward and placed the lightest kiss on your lips. You just sit there, stunned, before he breaks the kiss. You know that his newly found confidence is purely a result of the alcohol he had consumed earlier.
“I… err I…”You stumble over your words like a fool and all of a sudden you feel like the 16 year old, not him. To avoid his gaze your eyes fall to you lap, where he had placed his hands.
“You didn’t get your hand checked out did you?” he breaks his gaze away from you and looks down at the palm of his hand.
“No…I didn’t have time.” You offer your hand to him to pull him up and he graciously takes it. You lead him over top the kitchen sink where you run the cold tape.
“This is going to sting.” You take hold of his thin wrist and guide his palm under the running water. He winces despite himself and he struggles to mask his pain.
“You can curse if you want to” you joke, but he doesn’t. Soon after, you gently dab his hand dry with a few sheets of cotton wool before trying to bandage it up to the best of your ability.
“That’s one problem down. Now we just need to sort out the rest of you.” You think aloud.
“Huh?” he looks so cute when confused.
“Well, what do you normally sleep in? Like a t-shirt or pyjamas of summing? Coz if you sleep in wet clothes your going to get a chill.”
“Just my boxers.” He shrugs, innocently speaking. You have to bite down on your lip and desperately concentrate on anything other then the mental image you now have of Connor just clad in his boxers.
“Well… I’ll leave you to get changed and get you a towel or something to dry your hair with” you grudgingly wonder off to your bathroom in search of a towel. Once you’d accomplished your mission you return to the living room, astonished at what you see. Connor in all his beauty. Your eyes start at his head as it’s bent down and shying away from you. Your eyes then travel down, noting his quivering Adams apple, his slender neck until they reach his delicate shoulders. Immaculate ivory skin, stretched taught across them. Your eyes continue there journey lower down to his stomach, his ribs so prominent, you swear you could easily count them, until you reach the little wisps of hair just above his white boxer shorts.
White.
Innocent.
Pure.
“Kid-I mean, Connor, do you want to…” you gesture towards him as if to nonverbally tell him to cover up, but he doesn’t seem to take your hint. You notice his bottom lip has started to tremble and you’re unsure if he’s about to burst out in tears or he’s just cold.
“You ok?” He doesn’t answer but he starts to rub his upper arms with his hands, you think in an attempt to generate heat. You throw the towel over your shoulder and walk towards him, picking up one of the blankets you left earlier.
“Come here.” You softly wrap the fleece blanket around his dainty shoulders. You pull the towel from your shoulders and hand it to him, instructing him to dry his hair whilst you stroll over towards your kitchen and flip the kettle switch. You offer him a cup of tea or coffee but he politely declines.
“Well that’s good, coz I’ve left the bloody milk in the car.” You huff, switching the kettle off. As you turn around to face Connor you can’t help but giggle as you watch him grunting and moaning as he tries to dry his hair, with the towel you handed him, without letting the blanket slip from his shoulders. Evidently, multi-tasking is not one of his strong points.
“D’you want some help.” You startle him and he drops both the towel and the blanket. You smile as you notice his cheeks have been lightly dusted with a cute shade of pink from embarrassment. Walking over, you snatch up the blanket from the floor and, once again, wrap it snugly around him. You sink down in to your tatty old couch and softly order him to sit on the floor in front of you, but not before you position a cushion for him to sit on. Once he sits on his allocated cushion, you wait patiently for him to jiffle from side to side until he finally settles, with his back against your shines and head lolled on your knees. You take the towel in hand and start to softly massage his hair dry. Shivers bolt down your spine as you hear small moans escape his perfectly formed lips and his eyes flutter shut. Long, dark eyelashes resting daintily on his cheek bones. You bail off the couch and dash to the window, startling him.
“What...? What’s w-wrong?” the look of disorientation that’s strewn across his face makes your heart ache slightly. You don’t want to be the reason for his confusion, his pain. His deep brown eyes are searching yours, seeking some sort of logic or reasoning as to why you bolted.
“Nothing, I just… think its time you got some rest.” You mumble, running a hand threw your damp hair.
He looks hurt.
“Well maybe…I just err... I-I mean, maybe you could stay, like, with me-I mean err… like next to me…” he rambles on stuttering like a fool, which you must admit you find terribly endearing, eyes firmly fixed on-what you assume to be-a fascinating spot on the carpet and his hands twisting and wringing themselves into a knot. He soon manages to muster the courage to tear his eyes away from the spot on the floor and gaze up at you, hope gleaming in his eyes.
“…I’m, I’m not sure that’s a good idea… I just…”
The hope fades.
“You… you understand why?” he lowers his head, chin touching his chest and hair curtaining his eyes. He nods, but you know he doesn’t have a clue as to why you can’t stay with him, doesn’t see how wrong it would be.
“Connor?” he ignores you.
“Connor? Sweetie, you understand why I can’t stay with you, don’t you?” you sound as if your talking to a two year old, patronizing and condescending. You lean forward, slowly bringing your hand to his face, grazing his chin tenderly. Guiding his face up so you can admire his deep chocolate eyes, you brush his fringe to one side tucking it carefully back so it lays in form with the rest of his locks.
“Well?” he still yet has to answer you, and look at you for that matter as his eyes are still downcast, focusing on his thighs. You watch as he thinks, clamping his mouth shut and chewing savagely on his bottom lip. He looks as if he’s about to bite through it. You tell him to stop but he doesn’t. You hope because he’s concentrating too hard and not just as an act of defiance. Deciding to take matters into your own hands, you delicately roll your thumb across his lip, pulling his bottom lip from his clenched teeth. His eyes glance up at you, pretty boy eyes that look so innocent. You plop yourself down next to him, taking your hand away from him and running it roughly across your face. You sigh as you pinch the bridge of your nose, certain you have well and truly succeeded in smudging what little make-up you had on.
“Connor?” you face him square on and eventually (well, after you purposely knocked your knee into his to grasp his attention) he looks back at you. Tenderly, your hands find there way up to the side of his face, the pads of your thumbs tracing circles across his peach fuzz stubble on the side of his face. You’re mesmerized by the different shades of brown that grace his eyes. You lean in and place a light kiss on his forehead, noting the strawberry scent of his hair, before pulling back (you suspect a little too fast judging by the look on Connors face) and making yourself comfortable on your side of the couch. You gently pat your thigh, as if commanding a puppy to great you and Connor takes his cue. He shuffles back a little, just enough so he can still comfortably pull his legs up on the couch, and lays his head on your lap. Once again, you begin gently playing with his hair, running it through your fingers. A smile creeps onto your lips when you feel his warm breath on your thigh as he sighs in contentment.
*
As you wake, you’re saddened as you look to your lap to find Connor no longer there. You assume he finally sobered up, came to his senses and left. You drag your tired body from your couch and limp (thanks to a dead leg you endure whilst sleeping) over to your front door, snatching up your keys as you open it.
“Where are you going?” You crack a smile as you hear Connors voice coming from behind you. You turn around to see him exiting the bathroom in your dressing gown, which-you must admit- with the exception of the pink silk lining, really suits him!
“I was just… the milk.” You motion towards the car. He nods in an understanding manner as his fingers find there way to the edge of the robe and he begins fiddling with it.
“I umm… hope you don’t mind, I took a shower and well… my err clothes… there still… there still damp so I …” he trails off and you think he was aiming to apologies about wearing your bath robe, or at least that’s what you managed to decipher from all of his fragmented sentences and filler language. This leads you onto the though that maybe Connor has a stutter, that or he’s just painfully shy, but that’s a topic for another time.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, I should have told you where everything is before hand.” He smiles timidly.
“So anyway, what do you want to do about this situation with your uncle? I’m sure he’s worried about you coz you didn’t go home last night and all.” You wonder over to your refrigerator pulling a carton of orange juice out.
“Doubt it” you just manage to hear Connor mumble before he shuffles back into the bathroom. You furrow your brow, just for a second, before shrugging his comment off and assuming he’s just like any sixteen year old and just doesn’t see eye to eye with any authoritve figure.
“You can give him a call if you want, and maybe I can give you a lift back later.” You frown at your own comment; you don’t want him to leave! But what choice do you have? Short of physically tying him to your bedpost, you figure he will eventually have to leave sometime, with or without your permission (most likely without). You suddenly retract you thoughts back a little, back to somewhere around where you mentioned Connor tied to your bedpost.
Hmmm?
Interesting.
No! That would defiantly dial up the crazy just a little too high. Even for you.
As you see Connor padding back out of your bathroom, you’re quick to remove any trace of expression from your face. With your free hand, you swipe the cordless phone from its base and pass it to Connor, directing him to use your bedroom for privacy.
You perch your bottom on the edge of the kitchen side, waiting impatiently for Connor to finish in your room, your left hand still clamped around the juice box. You notice Connors damp clothes screwed up in a ball on your bathroom floor. As you shuffle over to your cramped bathroom, you stop in spitting distance of the door as you realize Connors left your bedroom door slightly open. You know you shouldn’t impose on his privacy, you shouldn’t be walking closer to your bedroom, shouldn’t be peeking through the crack in the door.
You shouldn’t.
But you are.
You listen intently to his side of the conversation but can hear no more then incoherent mumbles, so you softly apply pressure to the panel of your door, opening it just a smidgen more. Connor’s settled on the edge of your bed, his back predominantly facing you making it difficult for you to see more then just the back of his head and occasionally the outlining of his face.
“I said I was s-…” he jiffles on your bed slightly.
“Yes, but…”
“No, Sir” he sighs deeply before hanging up and falling back onto your bed. You watch him; mesmerized by the way his fragile chest rises and falls under its cotton prison. Entranced by the way that each breath he takes etches his shirt just that little bit further away from his low slung jeans. Captivated by the way his hip bones protrude out of said jeans. As much as you try to stifle it, you accidentally sneeze. Connors head whips round, bracing himself on his elbows, eyes wide in surprise.
“Were… were you listening?” the surprise merges into fear.
Well now you’re fucked!
What are you supposed to say? If you say yes he’ll ask why and if you say no he’ll know you’re lying.
“I… err…Juice!” you suddenly remember the orange juice carton in your hand.
“I just came to see if you wanted any juice.” You blurt out quickly
Smooth, real smooth.
He pulls himself upright, facing away from you again, letting his feet dangle over the edge of your bed as he wipes hastily at his face.
“So what did your uncle say?” you ask as you place the juice on the floor and sit just behind him on your bed. You watch his back intently as he chokes on a sob. Bringing your hand up, you place it on his back. His body jerks and he goes ridged for a second, but soon warms to your touch and you begin tracing circles across his spine.
“Just that he… err… he missed me” he whispers.
“And that made you cry?” you ask, disbelievingly.
“I’m not crying, alright?!” he yanks his body away from you, leaving your hand in mid air.
“I didn’t mean it like that, I wasn’t making fun…I was just… concerned.” You say, barely audible.
“Why?”
“Huh?” he takes you by surprise.
“Why care? Why bother caring about me? I mean nothing to you… to anyone.” The last part is just but a whisper, so much so that you doubt whether you heard it or not.
“Connor I do-“
“It doesn’t matter, look would you mind… could you please take me back to my uncles?” and you do as you’re asked.
*
The whole car ride is blanketed in an unbearable silence that you’re sure, if you don’t break soon, is going to asphyxiate the both of you. Your eyes occasionally glance over at Connor, noting the way he sucks his lip into his mouth for mere seconds before rejecting it and spitting it out, repeating the whole charade in one continuous loop. You pull up just outside the back entrance of the coffee shop and shut off your engine. As you turn to face him, his bottom lip is being sucked into his mouth again. He mutters a thanks and his hand reaches for the door handle.
“Connor?” you call, placing your hand on his forearm.
“I care, a lot.” you whisper softly and you see a genuine smile tug at the corners of his lips before he alights from your car.
*
Going home, all you can smell is him. Him on your couch, on your blanket, on the pillow, Christ you even think you can smell him in the God damn air. Deciding your irrational thoughts have gone a little too far crazy this time, you head for a shower, at least that way you’d be able to wash his scent from that room. Upon entering, you stumble over something rolled into a ball and lifeless on the floor and you hope to God it isn’t one of your neighbour’s cats who have wondered in here to die or something equally revolting like that. As you look down you realise it’s just a grey jumper.
Connors jumper.
You’re ready to bounce with joy as you pick it up from the floor and bring it up to your chest, inhaling his fragrance once again. You can’t help but slide it over your head and smooth it down your torso, the cotton feeling so soft against your skin. Well at least now you have a reason to see him again, a weak one, but a reason none the less.
*
Once again, you’re parked just around the corner of the coffee shop mentally going over what you plan on saying to Connor when you see him again, coming up with different scenarios in your head.
~Your eyes meet across the shop floor, he drops what he’s doing and easies through the customers in the way, all the while never letting his gaze leave you. Once he reaches you he tells you in French that he hasn’t stopped thinking about you and he makes a poetic declaration of love before tenderly kissing you~
No, that wouldn’t work; it’s too mushy for your taste.
~Instead, as you enter through the front of the shop and you spot him talking idly to Robbie. He shoves Robbie, who is blocking his view of you, out of the way and charges towards you, stopping mere inches away. He places his hands on your hips and crashes them into his, sending a lightning bolt through your body. He tells you that he’s not sixteen but really 22 and convinces you he just looks young for his age. Then he kisses you roughly, slightly digging his nails into your hips before he pulls away abruptly and orders you to make love to him on the shop floor~
No, that’s too… well too much like a cheap German porn film. Besides, you’d get stage fright.
~ Maybe you take the back entrance, even in broad daylight the alley seems only dimly lit. It no longer smells of urine and puke, now all you can smell is Connor. His beautiful manly aroma gliding up your nostrils, clogging every pore until you could taste him. Making you beg for his touch. You wonder up the alley until you see him… crouched on the floor and covered in blood? ~
That’s not how it’s supposed to be!
You rush up to him, slipping on what you can only describe as a puddle of slime, calling out his name. He looks up at you, startled by your presence and cradling a bloody nose.
“Can you hear me? Are you okay? Do you feel dizzy?” you sputter out whilst you take his face in your hands and look at him square on.
“I…I’m fine… what err… what are you doing here?” he asks but not in a way that brandishes accusation.
“You’re not fine! Your nose is pissing out blood. Who did this?” you nicely side step that question of what you are doing here.
“It doesn’t… it doesn’t matter, I just…. Slipped and hit the counter.” he says, eyes darting away from you.
“…Connor, don’t lie to me.” You say softly before tipping his head back and guiding his hand up to pinch the bridge if his nose.
“Was it your uncle?” you riffle through your jeans pockets until you come across a scrunched up tissue.
“…I err… he didn’t mean to… I was… I deserved it.” You freeze, staring at him blankly.
“Connor, no one deserves this. Don’t you ever say that!” you carefully dab the tissue over the excess blood.
“C’mon, jump up before you get all dirty.” You usher him to his feet making sure his hand is still at the bridge of his nose. As you guide him forward he suddenly doubles over leaving you standing, fear draining the entire colour from your face.
“What’s the matter!?” you shriek.
“…Nothing…I … nothing” his hand has left his face and is clutching at his side and he chokes a little on the blood that has trickled down the back of his throat. You don’t know what to do. You feel like spinning around in a circle in panic except that your legs have momentarily turned to jelly.
“Are you going to be sick?” he says nothing but he manages to pull himself upright with his hand still covering his stomach defensively.
It suddenly clicks.
“Let me see”
“I said it was nothing.” He whispers.
“Connor, Let. Me. See!” you demand. As an act of defeat and submission he drops his arm away from his stomach. You grasp the hem of his T-shirt between your thumb and forefinger and gently tug it upwards.
You gasp.
He winces.
And the revolting purple bruise just glares.
The size of a small melon and the colour squished blackberries, it drowns Connors frail ribcage.
“You’re coming with me”
“Huh?” he screws up his face in confusion.
“I’m not leaving you here with that monster. You’re coming with me!”
“I can take care of myself” he protests.
“I don’t care! I’m leaving and I’m not leaving without you”
“Indigo!” he raises his voice.
“Connor!” you raise yours just the same. You do realise that right now you’re not just stepping on, but your trampling all over his male ego and probably his pride and you might even go as far as saying that his poorly built self-esteem is getting a bit of a bashing, but right now, you just don’t care. To be honest, you’re prepared to kick him straight in his crotch manhood if you think that would get him moving and as far away from his uncle as possible