In Hell We Dance

Chaos

-Connor-

God, I just want to die!

I'm making scrambled eggs. That's it. That's what'll do it. I mean it won't cure this godawful headache, but it will make my tummy happy, and that's good enough for me.

I'm still all bubbly inside. To wake up, bundled in Isaac's arms... My god, it was incredible! This was more than sex. This was intimacy; this was compassion. He held me, and he held me close. Held me tight. Don't want to get ahead of myself, but I think I might be falling in l—

No. Don't' say the L-word. Far too early for that. You're just feeling giddy, but it will fade. One thing that can go fuck off is this hangover. Isaac goes unscathed, as you'd expect. I suppose his body is used to it, or he's just not a lightweight bitch like me. That kid can handle his liquor. Exhaustion got me through the end of that trainwreck of a night, but Isaac was bouncing all the way to my bed. Yeah, I've learned long ago that that kid sure is something.

Figuring Isaac out is like trying to understand people who like pineapple on pizza. Lord knows how their brains tick.

Anyway, I woke to his arm hanging loosely on mine, an absent promise to make me his, and his chest burned with the intensity of a furnace. I did the only honourable thing and snuggled up closer, a marshmallow to the fire. I didn't go back to sleep—my motherfricking headache saw to that—but I did just lay there, imagining a world where this could be my every day.

But all glorious pockets of bliss must pass, and Isaac wakes—with a snort. His nose twitches as if shot with electricity, and he falls into a choking fit. I pass him a tissue from the box on my bedside table and he coughs out a wad of phlegm. Yuck.

Sitting up, he grins lazily, eyes still held in a limbo state between the waking world and the sleeping one, and he swivels, resting his legs over the edge, a yawn soon following.

I got dressed and pause before I can greet him with a kiss. I want him washing that shit out of his mouth first. I leave him with directions to the bathroom, but I pause by the top of the stairs, leaning back to make sure he doesn't go exploring. Clever me, I catch him trying to sneak into Oscar's bedroom. He should be in school, but sometimes he leaves a little later.

Of course, Isaac doesn't know that, only that it's somewhere he shouldn't be, meaning that's exactly where he'll go, and so I hiss until he looks my way. We become engaged in a non-verbal argument, making weird faces as silent threats. He tried to play it cool, but I put my foot down—literally, and he relents, dragging himself right to the bathroom. I wait for the door to close fully, and then a bit longer as the tap churns into life, and with a satisfied nod, I take the stairs two at a time.

Here we come scrambled eggs: mummy's ready to feast!

***

Isaac makes a show of how much he loves my eggs. The whole wriggling and eyes clenched in ecstasy. I feel like a proud mother.

"Yo, Connor—these are like, so damn good."

"I know."

He finishes off by licking his plate clean, and I just watch, resting my chin atop my palm.

Isaac catches me staring and he wilts before adopting his award-winning smirk.

"Seems pretty empty—where is everyone?"

"Mum and dad leave at seven, and Oscar will be at school."

"Got any maids?"

I don't like the accusation, that all wealthy families have maids, but I don't blame him either. And he wouldn't be wrong.