"I don't care about any suitors."
I crack my knuckles, swaying my head to face the window, only now noticing the sun.
I blink a couple times, clogs finally beginning to turn after my bedtime jet lag.
I dart the room for a clock as I notice this blood orange ray of light painted on the wall.
"Hold on. What time is it?"I ask, halting my finger mid crack.
"It's either super early or late evening, surely not?"
He raises his arm up to feel the light, gliding the tips of his fingers along side it.
"It's evening. 9pm to be exact.
You've slept the whole day Seazon, did you not realise?"
This irritating ickiness swarms through my skin. I may be a pretty grub positive kind of guy, that I can admit. I mean, I have to be with my piss poor lifestyle.
But waking up late is something that's always bothered me.
Even when I was younger. I've always been there to meet new day.
Sleeping past 12am, waking up at 6am. Whether it be on the streets or in some guys bed. My brain just never canceled the automated alarms.
"You're all good." He grants, patting my head, using it briefly as a gentle prop to help maintain his balance.
"You must've needed it."
God.
somebody impregnate this yearning mother Gary already. He's too maternal for his own good.
I drag my feet from the bed, swinging them to the side as I lift my arms to stretch.
'Best be off then' I proclaim, hovering my
Feet above my shirt, gripping it my toes to bring up to me.
He tilts his eyebrows, displaying this strange look I cant decipher.
"You're leaving? You can stay another night you know, it's not bother."
I hesitate, slanting my head to the side, puckering my lips as I think.
"Do you expect me to pay you? I'm not becoming tenant to a tenant."
I snicker.
"Of course not, let me take care of you just for a few days. Think of it as a spar weekend." He says, attempting to form a convincing, spar professional, smile.
"Spar as in the shop? Because fuck, I'm parched."
His half smile turns into a full neutral expression of 'what the fuck' before wearily replying.
He stands, walking towards a dark brown cabinets. With windows just clear enough to see the,
"Gin?" He leaps, fringe pushed aside revealing his face, looking at the two bottles left to right, then peering at me up and down.
For a moment I'm really considering this. But I know where gin leaves me and I know how I get when drunk. Some may call me a lightweight. In many regards.
Then again… the only beer I've ever had was that in cans off the street which, admittedly, was mostly lorry driver piss.
So what? Perhaps my tolerance has yet to be explored.
I lay back, arms behind my head, framing my demeanour as nonchalantly as possible.
"Go on then. Just a glass." I utter.
He spins on his axis with a slight nod.
"You're going to have to get changed first though."
"Huh why? I sleep naked, might as well stay like this, no?" I snarl, rolling my eyes away from him.
"No naked people allowed in my flat unless you're showering."
"So be it." I say, hitching myself up and stumbling towards the bathroom.
"I'll be back in an hour! Don't wait up for me, just leave the gin open."
The door slams as I wave my hand behind me.
I hear glasses clanking from behind the wall. That sound might even be nicer than the mugs. It's realer.
"You're turning soft." My shoulders limp as I trace the scrunching on my hair as I place it beside the mirror.
"Wonder if creepo has any cameras in here?" I ponder, examining my surroundings then looking down at my naked body.
"Not that he'll see anything new if he has."
I slide my hands from forehead to face, realising how red I've turned just thinking about him seeing me like this.
Am I embarrassed? God. Have I been turning tomato this whole time and I didn't know?
Hopefully he just thinks it's withdrawal.
I twist the metal gage, expecting a light flow of water to trickle down my skin, only to be met with a force so strong i begin wishing I'd booked one of those badly acted funeral plans.
"Fucking Christ." I yell, smacking the clear door to support my fall.
My hands start to slowly edge down the glass until I hit the floor. Somewhat like that one scene in the titanic. I'm sure you can guess which.
The glasses stop clanking. All I can hear is the sound of the water patting on my back and the sound of defeat.
And footsteps, getting louder, and louder.
"Seazon?!"
Lucas practically runs down the door, I assume expecting a blood bath.
"I'm okay." I croak, attempting to manoeuvre my wet arse that was somehow pressing up against the — very see through— glass, pointed towards him.
"Your shower tried a sneak attack." I laugh.
But Lucas wasn't laughing.
He was just stood there.
Watching, almost tearing up as he looks to my leg.
I pull it up towards me, trying to hide the sting I felt as the hot water soaked into the wounds.
"Is that blood?" He asks.
Only now am I noticing how red the water has become. Whether it's dried blood or new. It did indeed, look like a blood bath.
"Can I come in with you?" Lucas asks, kneeling down to my level.
"What?! You perv! Why would you want to—"
His head hangs to the floor. Has he fallen asleep?
A moment passed. Then he breathes.
"Let me help you. I can wash you up, get you cleaned."
I couldn't tell you what my expression is. A mix between confusion, curiosity, and complete agony and, something else, as I look into his eyes.
"Sure fine whatever." I say in the most pathetic tone.
He pushes himself up on his knees, tugging his shirt from his trousers, lifting it over his head.
"Woah!" I shout, slapping my hand on the glass.
"If I'm going to clean you I need to be in the shower with you. I can't do anything right if I'm clothed." He declares as he unbuttons his belt.
He looks so serious. I want to make a joke about this, a witty crude remark.
But the way he looks right now.
He really does just want to make me feel better doesn't he?