As I surface, he greets me with a smile that I feel only because his lips are pressed against my shoulder. I tug urgently at the vest he is wearing, pulling it off with a hurried impatience that makes me feel like a child again. He likes the urgency. He likes this more than he will ever admit.
It is worth the money for this - it is worth the leering agreement of the manager downstairs who allowed us to rent this dingy room. We entered through the cracked door, our hands wandering eagerly over our bodies. We do not see the mold growing on the nasty yellow carpet, or the brown stains on the walls. We only see each other, and that is enough.
I fumble to turn out the lights, and he groans as I touch him in a particularly sensitive area. I place my glasses on the bedside table, folding them neatly. He plucks at my hands, wanting me to return my attention to his body. I chuckle, my fingers tracing the smooth skin of his arms.
"Dutchy..." He whispers against my neck, his hands moving lower. I blindly settle on the creaking bed as his chest meets mine. His lips capture mine, and there is no speech. There are sounds, little sounds, odd wet sounds that make my heart swell. If only he was mine to keep, forever and ever. But we both know that he is not.
"This time..." He pulls away, causing me to prop myself up on my elbows in protest. I watch his dark form as he stands and flips the lights on. He is naked. I arch a blonde eyebrow, only able to see the blurred outline of his body without my glasses.
"Put these on," He commands, handing me my glasses. Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I comply without question. I simply watch.
He gazes intently at my face, his hands going to the knotted black string behind his head. Before I even realize what he is doing, his eyepatch is in his hand and he faces me directly. He sets the black, old eyepatch on the flimsy night and stands before me, uncertain, unsure.
I stand as well, walking over to him. I am taller by several inches. I cup his chin in one of my hands, holding his face close to mine.
His good eye stares back at me, green with brown flecks in it, so warm that it almost makes me shiver. And his other eye...it is open, though it is white. A scar is on his eyelid, and when he blinks I can see that the white mark stretches to the very top of his cheekbone. "I'm sorry," He mutters, tugging himself away from me and stretching to pick up the eyepatch again.
"No," I protest softly.
He turns in surprise.
"You're...beautiful," I breathe, tracing the scar. I don't care about the fact that his sightless eye remains fixed on a distant spot. I only care that he is so near that I can touch him.
He does not reply - he does not need to. He smiles at me, that smile that I have learned to love so well. His full lips part, revealing his wonderfully white teeth.
I pull him to me, and again we stumble to the bed, gasping for breath and then forcing our mouths together again. It is wonderful. This is being alive. Every touch is soft, every breath taken is sweet. When we are both incredibly tired he curls against me, his body warm against my own. Both of his eyes are closed, his thick eyelashes almost brushing his skin.
"I love you," I whisper into his hair before drifting into sleep.
When I wake up, he is always gone.