In This World (Harry Styles)

2

Giving up's so hard yeah

Giving Up | Donny Hathaway

I began to doze from sheer exhaustion and confusion, murmuring that I'd fucked up bad this time, but not before hearing the door open and close again. Now he was stood there at the foot of the bed, looking down on me gingerly. I think he expected more vitriol, but I only lunged up, scrambling across the bed to him and throwing my arms around his neck.

"You came back..." I whimpered hoarsely. "You came back. I thought you were gone. I wanted to say I'm sorry. I wanted you to stay, but I didn't have a phone. I was so scared of being alone. But you came back. You came back..."

Later he fucked me over the dining table, and I lay across the wood, feeling my guts churn with how deep he was. Backing up onto him and begging for him to always go harder and faster. His stroke quickened, intensifying so much it felt as though we were levitating and I couldn't feel my ass anymore.

Now we lay in a daze, staring at one another and breathing anxiously. Shaggy's "Angel" played on his phone. I touched his face inquisitively, like I used to do when we were younger. Who was gonna bolt first? We couldn't stay in this powder keg forever. History illustrated that it would be him. It would always be him. He was always the first to go. I pressed my face to his cheek. He was addictively sweet. Like dope to me. Pure dope. Pure, pure dope. I kissed him brutally.

While we waited for clean sheets, I decided to try his phone for internet, but the signal was pretty spotty. Still, we watched YouTube and Netflix for hours, scrunched up together on the couch, shifting positions every once in a while when we grew overwarm and sticky. Our skin was chaffing and binding together in this crazed inseparability.

The next few days were consumed by the same sweet nirvana. A pleasure-packed, gut-wrenching blur of pure decadence. We fucked continually, like it was a full-time job. He couldn't stay out of me and I couldn't stay out of him. It's like we were making up for lost time. Or like I was going to fuck him until he changed his mind about marrying me, which I remained wary of broaching again. We hardly spoke anymore. Just our freakish telepathy and lots and lots of touching. No booze, no weed, and we were down to his last smoke, which he'd relapsed on since he got there and finally purchased a pack.

"I feel like I'm gonna break my dick," he laughed, as we lay on our sides completely nude at opposite ends of the mattress. His feet were in my face and mine in his. Occasionally he'd reach over and scratch the sole of my foot or pull my toes, leaving me in stiches.

"I already feel like I sprang my groin," he said, massaging himself so thoroughly I felt my dick twitching to life once more.

"Quit that, would you?"

"Oh, sorry."

"Mmm...." I sighed, moving to plop down in front of him and pressing our foreheads together.

"Hey..."

"Sex is how we communicate," I declared, sometime later. "If we don't talk...sex fills up the silence every time."

"Yeah, I guess. One of the ways I suppose."

"It's our love language," I determined.

"It's everyone's love language."

"No...I don't think so. A lot of sex is bad. You know that...with other people. With uz, it's unique. It's...transcendent."

"I like the way you put that..." he said, getting up and opening the balcony to let in the late summer air. Calm and cool, like a prelude of autumn.