So In Love Box Set

AfflictedThe first time I saw him naked, I noticed the cuts. Red, angry scrapes across the pouch of his lower belly, like scratches or claw-marks. “What’s this?” I asked, running a finger over one bumpy scab. He sucked in his gut to pull out of reach. “Nothing.” His voice turned sullen, pouting, and the erection that jutted from his thick crop of black curls seemed to wilt a little. “I thought we were going to—” “Did you do this?” I asked, interrupting him. The cuts bothered me; they spoke of a pain I didn’t know how to deal with, and that scared me. He scared me. I thought I’d known him. When he didn’t reply, I looked up from the cuts and saw the answer in his eyes. Sad, dark eyes, downcast, like the sky before a storm. He couldn’t seem to meet my gaze, as if the cuts embarrassed him, or he was ashamed of his own weakness. “Where else do you do this?” I asked. Still no answer, but his arms moved behind his nude hips as if hiding from my view and I snatched his right elbow to see for myself. In the low lamplight of my dorm room, I could see very faint traces across his skin, a network of healed flesh. With a hard tug, I pulled him over to my bedside table and turned the lamp up higher, held his arm beneath it. “Please,” he said, trembling when my fingers trailed over the scarred flesh. “It’s nothing, okay? Those are so old.” Holding his arm aside, I pointed at his stomach. “These aren’t.” His hand covered the fresh marks as if he could smooth them away, but he didn’t say anything and I knew I was right. Sinking down to sit on my bed, I guided him into the space between my legs and wrapped my arms around his thighs. Ignoring the hard d**k pointing at me, I pressed my face to his belly and kissed the highest cut, just below his navel. His hands cradled my head, fingers delving in my hair, and I waited for him to sigh my name before I admonished, “This doesn’t happen again.” No response. My hands curved around his buttocks, rubbing the firm flesh, my fingertips meeting in the cleft between his cheeks. I kissed the next cut, a little lower, then the next, and the next, until my chin grazed the bushy hair at his crotch. Bending down, I planted my lips on his thick shaft, then paused. His skin quivered beneath my breath, and his hands fisted in my hair. “You hear me?” I asked, looking up the lean length of his body to meet his hooded eyes. The hands on my head tried to push me down but I refused to budge. “Yes,” he sighed. I waited, wanting more. “Yes, please. I promise, all right? I swear, just…” His words dissolved into a gasp of delight as I took him in my mouth. With my lips, my tongue, my hands, I tried to show him what I felt for him, the love and desire I felt for this body against mine. I hoped he’d remember that the next time he wanted to tear into it. * * * * It was the first nice day of spring. Though patches of snow still clung to the ground, refusing to melt, the sun beat down strong through the scant breeze, warming the air. I couldn’t be bothered to sit in class on a day like that, so we met at the bus stop on campus with plans to head into DC for the day. When I saw him approach, my good mood dissolved at the black, long-sleeved T-shirt he wore. “Aren’t you hot in that?” I asked. Nudging his hip against mine, a playful gesture that belayed his haunted eyes, he teased, “If you think I am.” When I touched his arm, he pulled away. I wanted to grab his elbow, slide up his sleeve, and see what he might be trying to hide. But we weren’t alone—other students waited for the bus, most of them heading into town like us. So I let him distract me with small talk and that pretty smile of his, those shy eyes, and waited for my chance. A half hour later we were at the Metro station, buying tickets for the train. Before he could head through the turnstile, I snagged the back of his shirt. “This way,” I said, nodding at the restrooms. When he hesitated, I added, “Come on, man. I gotta take a leak.” The men’s room was empty, a minor miracle. He went right to the sinks, leaning over one of them to study his reflection in the mirror as he waited for me. But I didn’t stop at the urinals—I came up behind him, my arms encircling his waist, my whole body pressed against his back. My head fit neatly between his shoulder blades. With a laugh, he touched my hands, folded over his belt. “Right here?” he asked, his voice coy. Outside the restroom, footsteps rang off the concrete floor, heading our way. Without releasing him, I backed into the nearest stall; he laughed again, letting me pull him along. When he latched the stall door, locking us in, I stepped back and picked at the bottom of his shirt. “Take this off.” The stall was cramped. He turned, bumping against me; I caught the hem of his shirt, tugging it up over his flat, hairless stomach. “Wait,” he said. I raised the shirt higher, exposing pert n*****s that hardened in the restroom’s cool air. “What are you doing?” he asked with a shaky laugh, trying to smooth the shirt down. “Wait…” I couldn’t. Merciless, I pulled the shirt up over his head and he bent at the waist to let me take it off. His black curls were disheveled, his face ruddy, his arms and chest pimpling with goose bumps that he tried to rub away. Tucking one of his shirt sleeves into my back pocket to keep it from falling to the floor, I caught his wrist and had to fight him to turn his arm over. He struggled with me, his other hand clawing at mine to keep me from looking, but I was the stronger man. On the inside of his arm, up near his elbow, were a series of bloody marks. Anger flared in me at the sight of the swollen, damaged flesh. “You told me you’d stop this.” He twisted out of my grip, all playfulness gone. “You’re not the boss of me,” he said, sullen. “Give me back my shirt.” Instead I grabbed his arm again, my fingers closing over the recent cuts. He drew in his breath, hissing in pain. “You think this hurts now?” I asked, squeezing harder. He gasped and tried to pull away but I wouldn’t let him go. “Why do you do it in the first place?” “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Please—” “When do you do it?” I wanted to know. “Please,” he sobbed. Without warning I released him. Before he could draw those thin arms in across his chest and shut me out, I stepped closer, pressing my body to his. Cradling his head in my hands, I touched my forehead to his and forced him to look at me, to see me. I stared into his teary eyes and waited, silent, for the apology I knew would come. He drew in a ragged breath that hitched in his throat. I felt his hands touch my back, tentative, then fist in my shirt as if clinging to me for support. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, face crumpling beneath a pain I didn’t understand. “So sorry. I didn’t think—” I kissed his words away. “This hurts me, too,” I whispered; he nodded, yes, he knew. “To see you do this, and not even know why. Do you get off on it?” He shook his head, and my hands tightened on his face as if I could somehow pour my own strength into him. “Do you like it?” I asked. Another shake. A cloying helplessness rose in me and I clenched my teeth in frustration. “Then why?” Through his tears, he whispered, “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” I kissed him again, a hard, rough kiss that pinned him back against the stall door. I gave him myself in that kiss, everything I had, everything I felt, as if I could somehow hollow out all the pain trapped in him and instead fill him up with something happy, something positive. Fill him up with me. Wasn’t that enough? * * * * We missed our train. Instead, I led him outside, to a grassy hill that overlooked the rails, and we lay together in the thin sunshine, me on my back and him on top of me, once again holding me tight. His head fit comfortably under my chin, and I liked the press of his body against mine. Beneath my hands he felt so frail, bird-like, his shoulders hunched like damaged wings. After a long bout of brooding silence, he whispered into my shirt, “I won’t do it again.” “Don’t lie to me.” There was no harshness in my words, but he flinched as if I had struck him. I rubbed his back, and beneath my fingers, his T-shirt burned from the sun. The sleeves had been pulled up, but not enough to show his scars. I felt helpless in his arms, knowing that no matter how tightly I held onto him, he’d still manage to hurt himself when I wasn’t looking. Why he’d do it was beyond me. How could I ever hope to stop something I didn’t understand in the first place? “Usually it happens at night,” he whispered, startling me. His voice was muffled, his face turned against my chest so that his breath tickled under my collar and along my neck. When I didn’t respond, he ran a hand along my side, a ticklish touch, and told me, “I don’t mean to, I swear. But sometimes, when everyone else is asleep and I’m lying there wide awake, I can’t turn off my mind. I just keep thinking, round and round in circles, until I’m…” He shrugged, settling closer to me, and I wrapped both arms around his body to hold him. “Until what?” Burying his head against my chest, he sniffled, upset again. I hugged him tight. If only I could take this pain away. “I don’t know,” he murmured. My shirt grew damp with his tears. “Until I can’t think any more, and everything in me hurts so bad.” “Everything what?” I asked. “What hurts?” His answer was a shake of his head, rubbing his face against me. “I just need to bleed it out,” he sighed. “You know what I mean? If I can just get it out, make it hurt on the outside, maybe then it won’t hurt so much inside, see?” No, I didn’t. I couldn’t. “What hurts?” I asked again. “Just…” All the tension went out of him and he lay on me heavier than before, limp now, his entire body molded to mine. He kissed my neck, just under my chin, his mouth ticklish on my Adam’s apple. “I don’t know,” he breathed into my skin. “Maybe my heart.” My own heart squeezed in sympathy at his words. * * * * The ride back to campus was silent. I sat by the window of the bus, staring at the cars passing us, my mind empty because I didn’t know what to think about. Him, mostly. At one point, he laced his fingers through mine and held my hand in both of his. When the bus stopped at campus, he told me, “I swear it won’t happen again.” “Bullshit.” I pulled my hand from his and followed him off the bus. Before he could reach for me, I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Undeterred, he looped his arm through mine. “I’m really sorry,” he started. “You want to promise me something?” I asked. He nodded, eager to please. I stopped walking, forcing him to stop, as well; he turned toward me, the look in his eyes hopeful, expectant, and not a little bit afraid. In that moment, I knew I loved him. I said, “Promise me the next time you want to cut yourself, you call me first.” His mouth pursed in thought; his gaze dropped to my chin, then my belt, then my shoes, as if he were too ashamed to look at me straight on. I waited—this was it. If he couldn’t promise to at least give me warning that he wanted to hurt himself, if he couldn’t help me help him, then I would have to walk away. As much as it would tear my world apart, I would have to call it quits. I wasn’t going to fight him just to keep him safe. I couldn’t. “Mostly it’s at night,” he whispered. I had to lean closer to hear his words, they were so quiet. “Like, really late. You’ll be asleep and I wouldn’t want to wake you—” “I want you to.” He glanced up at me, hope shimmering in his dark eyes, and I smiled because I thought he needed to see it. “No matter how late it is. Call me, you hear? Before you go too far.” He thought about it a moment, then nodded. “All right. I can do that.” “Cause if you don’t?” I added. His gaze flickered to my face again, the fear bright in his eyes. “We’re through.” “No.” Both of his hands grasped my arm. “I’ll call you. I promise.” I leaned in to claim a quick kiss. “I hope so.” * * * * The phone rang at quarter after three in the morning. I was still asleep as I stretched an arm out to snag the receiver off my bedside table, but hearing my name in his tearful voice woke me in an instant. I squinted at the digital clock, my whole body numb. “What’s wrong?” “You said to call you,” he reminded me. He sounded so small, so distant and lost, a million miles away from the comfort of my warm bed and the fuzzy remnants of sleep that still clung to me. “When I…wanted to—” Shaking my head to clear it, I said, “Don’t do it, you hear me? I’m coming over.” “But—” I slid out of bed, clicking on the lamp and blinking in the sudden light. “Don’t do anything until I get there.” He sighed, a lonesome sound that filled my ear. “Promise me. I’ll be there in three minutes.” “You don’t really have to,” he started. But I was already pulling up my jeans, stepping into my sneakers as I zipped up the pants. “I’m on my way.” His dorm was on the opposite side of campus, but there was no one out that early and I cut through the woods despite the late hour. When I passed the student union building, I broke into a run, sprinting the last few yards to the student apartments. He lived on the second floor; in the predawn silence that draped the campus, my footsteps rung out on the metal stairs like judgment. At his door, I hesitated, unwilling to pound against the wood and wake his roommates, but that wasn’t necessary—the knob turned in my hand, unlocked. Inside, the living room was dark. The only light came from the small bulb above the oven; it spilled across the tiny kitchenette and splashed against the back of the sofa that separated one area from the other. Stepping inside the apartment, I eased the door shut behind me and waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the scant light. The door to the first bedroom was closed; I crossed the length of the apartment and peered down the dark hall to see the other bedroom door also shut. He slept in that room, I knew, but I didn’t want to barge in there, not if his roommate were asleep. Would he have called from there? A shuddery sigh behind me made me turn. There he lay on the floor of the living room, curled into a tight ball as if trying to protect himself from the rest of the world. His arms were clasped tight around legs folded against his chest, his head buried between his knees. Stepping around the sofa, I sank down to the floor, one hand reaching for him. “Hey there,” I breathed. Beneath my hand, his bare arm was cold. His fingers had turned white where they gripped his elbows, as if he held on tighter than was necessary. With a sniffle, he raised his face toward mine and I saw the light from the stove shine in his dark eyes. “I can’t,” he sighed. “I just can’t.” I didn’t ask for clarification. There on the coffee table behind me sat an open box of razor blades; I could see from the glimmer of metal inside the box that most of them were gone. Sure enough, a thin blade gleamed farther along the table, its sharp edge flecked with dark blood. My heart jumped in my chest. Suddenly I was all over him, prying his hands from his elbows, unfurling his arms, stretching out his legs to search for where he might be bleeding. All I found were superficial cuts on his thumb and forefinger, already healing. As I scrutinized them, he explained, “I picked it up out of the box the wrong way. I didn’t mean…” Before he could explain further, I caught him in a tight embrace and pulled his thin body against mine. After a moment’s hesitation, his arms encircled me, hugging me with a fierceness I’d never felt in him before. Into my shoulder, he whispered, “Sometimes I think no one cares.” I leaned back so I could look at him. Was he serious? He couldn’t seem to meet my gaze. “You had asked why I did it,” he said. “Remember?” With a nod, I encouraged him to continue. He glanced past me at the razor on the table, but I still held him tight, preventing him from reaching for the blade. “Tonight was just bad,” he admitted, his voice pouty, sulking, “in so many ways. I was lying in bed and all I could think about was no one gave a s**t about me, you know? No one would care if I.. I don’t know, if I wasn’t here anymore, no one would even notice.” Dropping his gaze to my neck, he toyed with the collar of my jacket as if unable to look me in the eye. His chin crumpled and he blinked back tears he refused to give into. He seemed unable or unwilling to say any more. I placed a finger under his chin and raised his face until he looked at me. At me. When I pressed my mouth to his, I tasted the salt of his tears. “I’d notice.” I murmured into him. “Don’t I count?” His answer was in his hungry kiss. I gave myself over to him, hands and lips claiming every inch of his beautiful, damaged body as I struggled to prove to him just how worthy he was of my love. THE END