ACHES

9. sore

I could remember his hands. His hands were heavy, and certain, always moving in straight lines. Holding my face, then digging into my waist, then gripping my hip and pinning it to the hotel door. I was burning, straight down to bone, letting him set fires with his hands. I was clawing at his chest, desperate to touch him. I wanted him under my nails. We were drunk and clumsy, but each of his touches were intentional. His lips were memorable, too, smokey sweet and crowding my mouth and neck. He seemed to catch each of my exhales, passing them back to me in quick gasps. I was dizzy from the lack of oxygen. It was perfect. I struggled to pull off my jeans while kissing him, noticing him laughing into my mouth. I unbuttoned them, and he slid them down my hips, kissing the tops of my thighs.

I pulled open his button down, sucking at the sweet skin on his chest. He panted thick moans into my ear, encouraging me as I bit down gently. I looked up, waiting for approval. He pulled on my bottom lip with his thumb, putting his greedy mouth to mine.

"You alright?" he asked suddenly, pulling away from my obedient lips. The lack of him left a bitter taste in my mouth.

"Of course," I reached for him, but he held me at a distance.

"Sweetheart," he was worried, crouching down, "Can you stand?"

I was crumpled in the corner of the hotel, my knees to my chest. I wasn't sure how I had fallen.

"I'm just dizzy," I lied, and closed my eyes.

"Alright," he cooed, a hand skipping up and down my spine. He rubbed down my back in circles, his heavy hands buffing into my skin. My hair was collected at my nape, his fist holding it without tugging or pressure. It was a relief to feel the crisp air conditioning against my flushed skin. "That's good, darling."

In a hazy state, I realized I was gripping white porcelain. A wave of disgust hit me as I realized I was bent over a toilet, my body curled into the thing as if it were a comfort. The disgust turned into nausea, and I was suddenly retching, my stomach heavy as stone.

"That's better, right?" he hummed, calm and easy. I shook my head, leaning back. He was right behind me, letting me sway into the solid earth that was his chest. I could disappear into him, I thought. I could be buried in him.

"I'm okay," I heard myself mumble. I could hear my breathing, but I couldn't feel my pulse, or the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

"You're very pale, darling. You need some water?" He was unnaturally sweet. My back sunk into his chest, his breathing rocking me into a numb, thin state of relaxation. I tried to feel the heat of him, the palm of his that was pressed to my stomach. I tried to feel his hand tucking strands of hair behind my ear, his fingertips against my forehead. All I felt was acid in my throat. It was all so far away.

"I don't know," I sighed earnestly, blinking at the stinging white light. Bathrooms were always headache-inducing. I never touched the light switch in my bathroom at home. I had a honey-coloured night light plugged into the only outlet. I blow-dried my hair in the living room. My throat tightened, and I squeezed my eyes shut, annoyed that I felt as if I would cry.

"I've got you," he murmured, kissing my cheek. His lips were cold, but silky soft. "Don't cry."

I scrubbed my wet cheek, frustrated that I had let a tear slip.

"I'm just tired," I was confused, trying to make excuses to explain nothing. I needed something. I needed to be at home. I needed to be alone. I needed my mother.

"You can sleep," he offered, his fingertips dipping into the tears on my cheek. He didn't wipe them away, just caught them gently. "I'll take you to your bed."

"I'm sorry," I shook my head, "I'm sorry I'm so lonely."

He was putting a blanket over me, my head deep in a pillow.

"I'm lonely too."

That seemed to be the right thing to say. He capped a water bottle.

"Don't make me fall asleep here." I was crying again, from the way my chest shook as I spoke.

"I'll be right over here," he was sitting in a wide armchair, his legs outstretched ahead of him. "I don't... I don't want to scare you in the morning."

"You don't scare me."

"You're very drunk," he was smiling into his hand, "You'll be okay."

"I can't sleep," I stared up at the ceiling. I watched a blade of the fan above me, spinning so slowly I couldn't feel the air move.

He startled awake, "You alright?"

"I need to sleep."

He stood, leaning over me, "Do you want to sit with me?" He was attentive above me, his eyes flicking over my face. His eyebrows were tight, his hands clasped together as if he were afraid to touch me.

"Please."

He tossed the blanket off of me, letting it fall into the corner of the room. He wasn't bothered by my limpness as he pushed his arms underneath me, arms tense as he lifted me. My chest was sore. He sat on the chair, letting me drape over him. He was velvet and summertime, I was enamored by his smell and familiar warmth.

"He's not really dead, you know," I turned my head into his chest.

"Who?" he asked, voice hoarse with exhaustion. I think he had been singing to me.

"Dad."

"Oh," he held my wrist lightly, "That's good, then."

"Not really."

"Mm," his thumb circled the knobby bone of my wrist.

"He's burning his money so my mother can't have it."

"Okay," he said gently, tenderly. Hesitantly. I was ruining it.

"Are your parents divorced?"

"Yeah."

"What's it like?"

"It's how it is," he breathed out slowly, his breath falling over my face, "Go to sleep, sweetheart."

I slept.