Started out as a re-write of Moments Like This, but that story was driven by a tone I struggled to recreate, so it divulged into its own thing. I've been on a Depeche Mode high lately, so I wrote this 'In Your Room' and 'Enjoy the Silence' playing in a loop (hence the title).
In Your Room
He always tells me what a fucked-up place the world is, and I usually agree, but sometimes, when I'm alone with him, I dare to think otherwise. I don't voice this because he might say I'm crazy, or that he doesn't feel it too, but I know he does. I know he feels it by the way we can talk for hours. By his voice when he sighs. By the way the smoke slowly seeps out from between his lips like a private smoke screen, making him fade in and out of view like an apparition. By the way his sharp eyes glance between his hand and my lips as he passes me his cigarette. The red under his finger nails after dying my hair. I know it by the way his hand runs down my back in a slow, whisper of a touch, that makes me feel human. Truly human. Truly alive. It all reminds me of who he is and the ways he makes my grey world a little brighter. We're not popular and I'm not his only friend, but the way his arm drapes around me as he plays with the tassels of my jumper make me feel important. His aura is all encompassing and all consuming, and I've been assimilated. It's just us here, outside of time, in our own private galaxy. The world – my world – isn't such a fucked-up place when I remember there are people like him in it.
He invites me over on weekends and we sit on his bedroom floor, smoke cigarettes and rotate through his Joy Division and Depeche Mode CDs until we can't stand them anymore. I lean against his chest, his hand running up and down my arm, and, just through this gesture, I can't recall ever feeling so loved. So delicate. Needed. 'Do you want to turn it off?' he asks, just after dark.
'Sure,' I say, like it's routine. It may as well be. His clicks open the top of the stereo and slides the disc back into its case. Long, spidery fingers work delicately and methodically to put everything back in order. He stares at me for a long moment and neither of us says a word. It's unnecessary. He knows me in a way I can't fathom knowing myself, and I know him. Every detail of his face, from the curve of his eyebrows to the sharps ridges of his nose, are burned into my memory, and his hazel eye haunt my dreams.
Maybe the conformists are right, and the world isn't fucked-up at all, it's just us. Maybe we don't belong here. I've thought about this a lot lately, but it doesn't bother me, because whether we're meant to be here or not, I know we're meant to be together. This in an indisputable fact.
He slides an arm around my shoulder and I lean into his neck, where I listen to the thump of his heartbeat and try to synchronise my own, like a watch. Those delicate, sharp fingers graze my forehead as he brushes my fringe back and linger in my hair, curling it around them then letting in drop back against my scalp.
There's no such thing as silence so long as I can hear his breathing, and this creates the perfect atmosphere. He must feel it too, because he leans forwards and pulls my entire being into a kiss. This action, for the shortest of moments, combines us into one. One heart. One soul. One breath. It doesn't last long, and as we separate again I can still feel fragments of him left behind, replacing the parts in me that I gave to him. The palm of his hand presses against my cheek and I feel his energy break through my stippled skin, shooting down into my core. His fingers trace patterns under my eyes and his energy forges scars in my veins, like a signature, marking me as his. I close my eyes, just for a moment, and embrace this feeling. There is nothing beyond this room – it's just us, a packet of cigarettes, and the candles illuminating his imperfect beauty. No school, no parents, no South Park. Just two boys in their secret world.
My phone buzzes and the moment ends. He retracts his hands and sit up straight, our connection now slack. 'Same time next week?' he asks. I nod. Our world evaporates, waiting to reform in wisps and breaths throughout the week, until we can be alone again next Sunday.
I walk through the desolate, empty streets, and the feel of his touch leaves my skin as quickly as his taste left my mouth. I run my thumb over my chapped lips in mourning. Why do best things in life have to end?