Waking Up With A Stranger
Cosy. Warm blankets. Vanilla and lavender. The stale taste of last night's tea. Bright morning light assaulting closed eyelids.
Collins stretched sleepily and opened bleary eyes. The pain returned to his abdomen slowly, dulled, and his knees were stiff where the grazes had begun to scab over. He lazily raised a large hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes, but stopped at a soft cotton bandage on his cheek. As his mind swam into consciousness, the memories from last night flooded back. And turning on his side in the small bed, he saw his rescuer.
He was curled in an armchair, hugging his knees. The same position he had fallen asleep in last night, in the same clothes. Collins smiled; he loved deep conversations, talking into the night. And last night, with Angel, had been the single longest and most meaningful conversation he'd ever had. Shyness had always overcome him, but Angel overcame that.
Angel. He savoured the name. It was the perfect fit for the magical creature alseep in the chair with the angelic face. Serene and beautiful. Seeing him, raw, like this was a strange contrast to the bubble of energy he had been last night. Collins felt almost indecent, like he was seeing something secret and private.
He didn't want to wake him, but going back to sleep was impossible. His mind fizzed with excitement and plans and musings on fate and destiny. He was well-versed in drugs, but he'd never felt high like this before. Emotions burst in his chest, he wanted to run and scream. To pick Angel up and carry him over to the bed. To hold him in his arms and bury his face in the crook of his neck and just inhale. To kiss him and feel his body respond.
For some reason there was no question in his mind whether Angel returned this feeling. After last night it seemed an unspoken certainty between them; like a storm brewing, a miracle waiting to happen. He wondered if this was how the great philosophers felt; Archimedes when he took a bath and discovered density. Knowing a very normal day is the most important one of your life. And he felt just as important; that whoever controlled these things had seen fit to give him Angel...On Christmas Eve, at the scene of a crime in a dirty New York alley. It was fairytale stuff. For the first time he seriously considered the possibility of a higher plan, a destiny.
Collins always thought too deeply about things. As far as he was concerned anarchy was computer age philosophy, and until today it had occupied the best part of his twenty-seven years, with a significant other portion devoted to hedonistic pleasures with friends. He occassionally found people attractive, boys and girls, but whilst he understood love - in so much as he felt it for his small group of close friends and his dad, a sixty year old version of himself - he had never searched for it. He couldn't say he had a definite sexuality because he had never fallen in love with a member of either sex.
Until now, when the building intensity in the pit of his stomach at the mere sight and memory of the boy in the armchair propelled him to sit up, and ignore the dull pain as he padded out of the bedroom. The pain was barely distinguishable from the butterflies anyway.
He made a cup of milky tea, selecting a blue mug with tiny rainbows painted on it and rinsing an old teaspoon which was sitting on top of a pot of paint, as there were none clean. As he stirred, he took in the appartment. Smaller than his. Roger's and Mark's, he corrected himself...once his. Dull grey walls disguised with an explosion of colour. Art, posters, clothes and scraps of fabric scattered in an orderly mess. The clothes. He paused briefly noticing the collection of female clothes. Shiny platform boots, patterened skirts, make-up, feather boas, glitter, sequins. Angel had told him about this last night. They'd spent very little time discussing it; it seemed immediately sensible to Collins, taking in Angel's delicate, sweet, girlish manner. He wondered if after he saw him in these clothes, he'd think of Angel as a she. He found he was very excited to see Angel in these clothes, and was pleasantly shocked to find this excitement manifesting itself primarily in his groin. His mind wandered and he began lots more wonderings as he continued to stir and sip; what would Angel's skin feel like, smell like, what would Angel taste like, what noises would Angel make during sex. What would Mark and Roger think when they met Angel. He was so excited to introduce them.
Still stirring, he went slowly back to the bedroom. He pushed the door open quietly and slipped back over to the bed, the leopard print rug soft and tickling between his bare toes. He sat and drank his tea, watching Angel sleep. Breathing in, his chest rising. Breathing out in delicate puffs, rippling the sparkly turquoise scarf that was draped over the chair near his head. A content smile played on his lips.
Shyly, like a little boy, Collins blew him a kiss, and then cringed at himself for being ridiculous.
As if he'd felt the kiss, Angel shifted, yawning regally and stretching his lithe body like a cat. He opened his eyes smiled sleepily at Collins, who felt his insides sparkle.
"Merry Christmas, honey."