Page 47 of Open Water

“Anything,” I whisper. “What will make me anxious is not knowing. Ignoring me when I see you, or not touching me when I’m right there. That will trigger all kinds of shit in my head. Worrying that I have done something wrong, or that you are just messing me around. My head is a confusing place when I get worried. I can’t always make sense of totally normal things and I overreact on the inside instead of just letting things slide. I am trying to work on it, but it’s not easy.”

“Thanks for telling me, and trust me, Pumpkin, I’ve got you. I’ve tried to find ways of getting to know you for so long, and now that I finally have you, I’m not going to do anything to fuck this up. Promise. I’m yours. And you are mine. Please don’t forget that. Mine.”

He nibbles at my lips again. Little soft kisses. I can taste his saliva on my lips. His spit on my tongue.

“Mine,” I say back, and tug a little on the hem of the t-shirt he is wearing. My t-shirt. It should come off. Really.

Instead, he recoils at my hand touching the skin on his back. Shivers and whispers, “Sorry,” into my chin.

I suck at this. I am the worst boyfriend in the world. If that’s even what we are.

“Are we boyfriends?” I ask. I’m stupid. But since we are being honest and open here, I might as well roll with it. The whole imbecilic stupidity of Maximillian Andersson, age seventeen, rolled out in one big nerdy sentence. Like, I don’t know. But I don’t. We haven’t said it.

He’s quiet for a little while, which brews all kinds of horrible thoughts in my head. I probably smell bad. And am an extremely bad kisser. Maybe I am doing this all wrong. Maybe he expects me to do this? Maybe he doesn’t want to do this at all? Maybe that’s what he defines as? Kisses boys, but doesn’t ever want to have sex? Maybe that’s a thing? Fuck, I need to google it.

“There is something I need to tell you,” he says quietly, and lets his finger stroke my cheek. Then moves my fringe out of my eyes.

He’s beautiful. Stunning. Pools of blue eyes and perfect eyelashes, and that mouth that I just want to do things to.Fuck it. I kiss him. Press my lips to his, hard and uncoordinated, but I just need to feel him. Make my body remember that this is real.

“You can tell me anything,” I say. I sound more confident than I feel.Please don’t break up with me. Please don’t tell me anything bad. Please don’t leave.

“I’m not…” He takes a deep breath and I try to keep my eyes on him. Steady. I can feel the waves. Lapping at my feet and I don’t want this.

Please don’t do this to me.

“I’m not perfect, like you.” He stutters a little before he continues. “My body is not perfect. I have… some bits. Scars. Most of the skin on my hip is fucked. I’ve had grafts from my back, but… it’s ugly. I’m ugly and disgusting… and I don’t ever take my top off. I never have. I don’t want you to see it because you may just never want to touch me again.”

Fucking hell, I almost laugh.Is that it?

“Baby,” I almost whine out. “You have seen me. The inside of my head is ugly. I’m too skinny and I’m sometimes completely insane. You still seem to kind of like me. I hope. Please, tell me you still like me?”

“I love you,” Matteo croaks out, but he doesn’t look like himself. If I wasn’t so freaked out I would say that he is probably as freaked out as me. In a freaked-out way. And I am saying the wrong things again.

“You are perfect. There is nothing a few scars will change about the fact that I think you are the most gorgeous bloke I have ever seen. It doesn’t change the fact that when you kiss me, I feel like I am on some kind of magic mushroom trip. That you look at me and I go weak at the knees. That I am almost having a total freak out here, because I thought you were going to say that you don’t want to do this. That you and I are a mistake. Maybe that I smell bad and fart in my sleep?”

I’m trying to make it light-hearted, but he’s not smiling. Just pushes the duvet down his stomach until I can see the hem of the t-shirt. The bulge in his underpants. His hand shaking a little as he pulls the fabric up to reveal the curve of his hip.

He’s obviously trying to kill me. Seriously. Because he has also kind of revealed my cock and I have a semi going on that is not going to go away with his little impromptu striptease.

I kind of want to kiss him. Rub my body all over his and squirt spunk all over him. Scent him like a dog and make him mine.

But his skin is angry. Red and mottled bumps covering where the skin should have been smooth. Welts from scars that tell stories of pain that makes my stomach constrict and my throat dries up like sandpaper.

“What happened to you?” I croak out, still reaching out. I trace my finger over his stomach. It’s warm. Soft. It’s him.

“Car crash. I was thirteen. They are burns and the cuts are surgery scars from the internal injuries. My left kidney didn’t make it.” His eyes are closed and he is kind of trying to hide in my neck. Almost hyperventilating with fear.

Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck.“Baby?”

He just groans. A little whimper.Please don’t.Please don’t cry, because I can’t take it.

“Does it hurt? Now I mean?”

“Some of the areas have very little feeling, others are really sensitive. It’s a mess.” His voice is barely there.

“It’s you, and you are beautiful.” I let the palm of my hand feel him. Stroking. Moving further up his chest to where the skin is smoother in patches.

“You are warm, and soft.Fuck,baby, the things you are doing to me.” I am panting a little. Wanting to cover my now quite blatant boner up. I’m getting off on touching him. I don’t care about the scars. About the shapes and patterns on his skin. It’s him, and he’s fucking gorgeous.

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