behold a dream .｡.:*☆ pink floyd imagines

rick #3

{ mail for richard }

rick calls your name like a sailor spotting land: alert, but weary. from the bedroom you imagine his figure before it appears and acknowledge the soft sweep of his hair and the curving lines around his mouth. but the promise of his sweatered embrace is not enough to make you rise from the bed.

you're buried under layers of sheet, blanket, and comforter, head pressed to the pillow and mind stopped in the middle of a thought. a cry sits beneath your tongue and your stomach growls as a reminder of your skipped lunch. today, you called in sick to work, feigning a cough and a fever. but the only real fever you had was navy-blue-toned, a wash of thick sadness clouding your head.

rick's knuckles suddenly rap against the closed bedroom door. you lick your chapped lips and breathe a sigh, "come in."

he fills your vision at the side of the bed, one moment a hill of mattress before you, the next, his multi-colored sweater, the buckle of his belt, his hands limp at his sides. he crouches to your eye-level. something bubbles in your throat with the sight of his bearded face. you desperately want to reach for him — to follow the curve of his brow bone with your touch, sliding down into his hair until your palms settle on his gentle chest — but your arms are tired.

"how are you," he whispers and reaches to wipe his thumb over the top of your ear.

you fondle his wrist, the sheets crinkling with the rub of fabric, and keep his affection focused on your face. your eyes shut briefly before you invite him into your bed.

"i didn't go to work today," you supply. a shock of cool air nibbles your spine before rick lets the sheets fall over him. he warms you instantly, curled over and around you. this is how you like to fall asleep with him. his scrubby chin makes your shoulder itch when he gives a press of his lips. the position reminds you of late night talks with him, sometimes spurned by the bite of alcohol or the drowsy after-blush of intimacy. they often make you feel as if rick is the only person in the world worth speaking to; he has such things to say about the creation of the universe, or our reason for existence, or the way oranges are already broken into peelable, fleshy quarter-moons.  

"do you think you will go tomorrow?" his voice is its own song.

"i'm not sure."

in the past, rick's tried to explain the possible origin of your depression to you: a sad childhood leads to a sad life. but you've always wiped him off. now, on your distant monday, your rain cloud monday, you're starting to reconsider.

he nods against you in reply and reaches around your waist to bury his hand in your underwear. that was how far you had gotten this morning: dressed in your undergarments. your prepared outfit still hangs over the vanity chair where you left it after crawling back into bed.

"are you hungry?" there's the cold metal sting of his ring on the skin below your navel. you shudder at the touch, knowing he won't move further until you tell him to. but you retrieve his fingers and set them on your stomach instead.

you admit to him you haven't eaten since breakfast and the mattress conforms to its initial state as he rises.

"orange juice and the leftover chicken from your mother's?"

he's convinced vitamin c has the same effect on your depression that it does on sickness. you let him think that and mumble a "sure," before he leaves the bedroom.

somehow, perhaps because of rick's presence, you manage to draw yourself from the bed and find the kitchen. his back to you is slight and his nimble hands flash above the stove as he lights the burner.

"i'm sorry," you tell him and sit down at the table.

he doesn't turn from the open flame, but says your name again with a gentle lisp. "if there's anyone who can understand," he tells you, "it's me. no apologies."

"hmm-mmm," you hum. your throat aches with the knot of tears and you occupy yourself with the tablecloth to extinguish the pain.

it's not long before rick places a plate in front of you and sits across to watch you eat. your gaze flashes to his. he furrows his brows in a way that makes you regard your food instead of him.

tomorrow you'll go back to work, you assure the limp vegetables, because rick can't be your caretaker forever.