If I was invisible…then I could just watch you in your room...If I was invincible…I'd make you mine tonight…
I swear, in all honesty, that is what wakes me. This…horrible noise comes from within the cavern (see: kitchen) and I can't help but wonder if, deep down in Cleave, there's a lover-boy just clawing to get out. Then again, if that lover-boy abides by Clay Aiken, we have a serious problem. Couldn't he be the Bon Jovi lover-boy type—or even better, the Frankie Valli lover-boy type? Come on, not even just the Billy Joel type?
I pick my head up off the pillow and touch at the bandages lazily, flinching away from the stab of discomfort in my stomach. I think his chicken katchitori's repeating on me.
And something tickles unpleasantly, until I yank something hot pink off my face. It's a post-it, just a post-it, and in Cleave's elegant though loopy handwriting it reads 'Hey there, pretty bird'.
His affinity with that nickname is beyond me.
"Cleave!?" I yowl lethargically, and my only answer (strangely enough, from what sounds like underground) is "If I was invisible, then I could just watch you in your rooooom! If I was invincible, I'd make you miiiine tonight!"
I almost fall out of the bed when I glance over and yes, oh yes, there's Cleave! He's lying across the bottom, his hands folded over his chest, bopping and singing along to the beat excitedly. His head's flat on the floor, and on the other side of the bed his toes curl and wiggle.
"…Why are you down there?"
"I figured-uh…that…in case you decide to misssssbehave, I can see you plenty fine from down here and make—ah damn sure you don't go a-wanderin' around. Or standin' in front of the wind-duh-ows. You know, things of the like."
Basically, he's keeping me under his own form of house arrest.
In another world, in another universe, this is sweet.
"I'm gonna need to toss my cookies in a few, Cleave."
"Got no more cookies left for that Olympic sport. You offed the malomars without merrrrcy."
Watching him squiggle out from under that bed is like watching a demented crab do a human-walk. That's the best way I can describe it. It's sick, how flexible he is. It's just completely wrong. When he bangs his knees accidentally against the frame, he just lets out a few asthmatic-sounding giggles and then finally claws out, grinning from ear to ear.
"Please, don't mention food. I think after ch-chicken katchi-no, my stomach's retreated into hibernation."
His face falls, but the false dimples (see: the scars on his once-pretty face) relentlessly twitch. Like they're trying to keep up a smile even without one there.
"Ya know, I slave over sticking take-out in an oven and this—this is the thanks I get."
His hands move too much when he talks, and watching them is enough to make me suitably dizzy. I let out a slight howl of a pitiful sound, and note that he's standing in front of me calmly, his thumbs hooked at the waistline of his boxers.
The sounds of Clay Aiden drone into the background, and my luck just keeps getting better. My iPod blares back in to the sound of an upbeat Calypso tune, and my face scrunches into a brief confusion.
Work all night on a drink o' rum…daylight come an' me wan' go home…stock banana 'til de mornin' sun…daylight come an' me wan' go home…
I can't help it. It's a snort of a sound, a half-laugh, a semi-high pitched sound and he suddenly stands perfectly straight, like some half-baked admiral has called him to attention. Without the restraint of the kohl, his eyes aren't as bright, but the unforgivably deep green is suddenly aflame. His lips curl so far upward that his smile crawls in and out of his ears.
For some reason, Day-o is one of the few songs that has the power to (somehow) make me laugh. Then again, I usually laugh at inappropriate times (see: my cousin's funeral).
If I had a real therapist, one who wasn't Cleave, he'd tell me it's my method to cope with anxiety. In the completely worst way.
"What'uhs thaaaaat, Harvey-cakes?"
He's exploding with the chance to comment.
"There was a tickle in my throat. Did I mention that I need to go vomit again? Because I really feel like I—"
"Laughter is the best medicine, toots."
I chew my lip thoughtfully and stare at the wall covered in shag carpeting. It's a classic hippie-pad, complete with endless, fluffy goodness. You can lean against the wall and still fall asleep.
You gotta unwind, Harv, the voice of every ex-boyfriend taunts me, You're too serious all the time.
Yo, please don't stick a knife in my mouth.
Two of his fingers prod me almost violently in the cheeks, and he squishes them together until I fall victim to fish-face. He makes little gooey baby noises (and I remind myself that no child of mine will hear such things…am I seriously considering this? I'm an ass-hole...) as he prods.
"Hee, ha, ho, ho, hee—" he coos, and when he whirls he begins to lip-sync to Come, mister tally man, tally me banana.
It's unrestrained. I laugh again.