Page 72 of My Lovely Tragedy
But of course, it wasn’t—because what he needs is me. And I made sure of that.
I’m greedy when it comes to him. Reason flies out the window and all that remains is the desire to keep him—anyway I can have him. Whether he loves me or hates me, it does not matter. And I think that makes me sick. Something inside my brain had broken off the moment I carelessly stared into his eyes.
But none of that matters now because we are here, exactly as we are meant to be.
I lean my head back, but I never close my eyes, keeping Brooklyn in my line of sight as I play with his silky hair, carding it through my fingers and wrapping the gnarled, sticky strands around my digits until I feel the tug against his scalp.
He grunts softly, shifting closer and displacing his weight. My abdomen tenses as his buttocks shift, pressing uncomfortably against my groin. My quadriceps flex as I dig my heels into the floor to move him, but it only serves to press him deeper into my lap.
The tension multiples, pinching the skin around my groin. Heat flushes just below my skin, steadily rising to the surface. Small pricks of warmth bead along my hairline, just beneath the mop of displaced curls. My glasses slide further down my nose, the pieces lodging into the soft flesh of my nostrils, lens slowly fogging with each damp breath reflected back at me.
I shift to my right, settling most of his weight to that side as I push my glasses back up, displacing the condensation. A soft whine leaks from his throat, and that’s all I hear. Over and over thatsoundrings in my head. Small and seemingly insignificant, and yet, it is the loveliest sound I have ever had the pleasure of hearing.
I try to stand and nearly fall back into the couch when needles strike through the soles of my feet so intensely, I hiss. My fingers flex along Brooklyn’s sweaty skin, biting into the meat along his waist to ground myself.
The second attempt goes much the same way. Loss of sensation, numbness and static filtering through my extremities to the point of agony. I look down to my angel, sleeping through it all. Blissfully unaware and content to let me worry. To let me bear it all for him.
And it’s his trust in me that finally gets me to my feet, chains dangling in the air around us, as I shift Brooklyn in my arms. I carry him bridal style through the large room and toward the bathroom, my feet following the path more from memory than sight.
By the time I’m pushing the door open and flipping one soft light to brighten the room, Brooklyn’s staring up at me through bleary, bloodshot eyes. I meet them without hesitation, searching their depths like the selfish, hungry bastard I am.
He blinks once—a slow movement—before leaving them closed. Stealing his irises from me because he has the ability to.
My fingers twitch against him. The urge to pry them back open, to force him to let me look, is nearly too strong to overcome, so I settle on squeezing him tighter against me, reminding him it is my body he feels against him. My arms.
It is my heart beating for him and my breath that is in his lungs.
There is only us.
I’m unable to shut the door due to his manacles, so the cool air flows in as I rest against the edge of the tub and begin filling the porcelain with steaming water. Brooklyn shifts in my lap again, nearly toppling into the water when he leans too far back.
I grunt as I catch him, yanking him back against my torso. He sucks in a whistling breath, fingers clutching my sweater so tightly, the collar tightens and chokes me. His heart hammers against me, each beat heavy and charged. With the gentle prodding of my fingers working to ease the flash of uncertainty, it slowly begins to slow back into a normal range.
“Trying to send us both into the water, darling?” I ask gently, the first words spoken between us in hours. My own throat feels hoarse from lack of use, and the sound feels too strong as it shatters the stillness we’ve settled in.
Brooklyn tenses again but settles himself just as quickly. More of a reflex than anything. I feel more than see his fingers plucking and tugging at the blood-stained cashmere. I’m happy to let the silence ensue as I watch the bathtub fill. When it nears capacity, I finally pry my darling away from my chest with much regret.
I force him to sit up, balancing him atop my thighs. He sways but manages to keep himself upright as I lift my bloodied sweater over my head and drop it to the floor somewhere to my left. My eyes never leave his face.
Pink flushes his skin, blooming across his cheeks and down his neck. I drag my palm over his jowl, relishing in the scrape of his beard as I tuck a wayward lock behind his ear, tracing my thumb along the delectate skin there.
Brooklyn shivers, eyelids fluttering. His bottom lip quivers, but it’s not until my hand grazes across his forearm that the tears fall. The blood has long since dried, now rust colored and flaking off at my touch.
The color is absolutely lovely on Brooklyn—and I tell him as much.
He shifts in my lap, feet grazing the floor like he’s working up the courage to dislodge himself from my arms. The thought makes me frown, and my arms tighten. Brooklyn glances down at my sleeves, pushed to my elbows. Down to the faint traces of blood caked beneath my fingernails, in the creases of my skin. In the dark hairs smattered.
“What’s going on, Tobias?” His voice is nothing but a whisper. “This…” He drags his thumb over my arm in the same pattern I trace on his. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“On the contrary, my lovelycorvus,it makes all the sense in the world, don’t you think?”
He shakes his head, even though the words to spill from his lips contradict. “I don’t?—”
“Don’t think so hard, darling.” I lean forward just enough to skim my lips across his forehead, to taste his salt in the barest of touches before pulling away and setting him on his feet. He wavers but catches himself with his hands on my shoulders, chains heavy against my torso. I drag his pants down his thighs, baring himself to me. I tap each foot, and he lifts, letting me discard the clothing to the side.
“Outside perceptions distort what truly matters.” I grasp his wrists, just below his manacles, and guide him into the water. He hisses but lowers himself in until he is all but fully submerged.
His blood flakes off, staining the water pink. “And all that matters is us. Who we are together and what we need.” I dip a cloth into the water, then grasp his chin between two fingers, turning his head toward me. He closes his eyes as I drag the cloth over his face, gently scrubbing his fear and pain from his skin, leaving him fresh and pink and stained by me.
