Nosty keeps odd hours, even when he's not spelunking in the dark caverns of his defective psyche, but Belle doesn't seem to mind it. Not anymore than she minds having an unwashed Gles-gi bastard curled up against her fucking headboard for days on end, which is to say, not at all.
During the afternoons, off and on, he sleeps. It's safer and warmer to catnap during the day when you're sleeping rough, and by now the habit is deeply rooted. Belle keeps close, reading books or grading papers, sometimes rubbing slow circles over a spot at the base of his back that seems to release his grief—and then he's fucking making a spectacle of himself all over again, and she's crooning and hauling him closer, and he's all but crawling out of his own skin, trying to shed it and get inside hers.
He's a fucking mess.
She lets him keep his own hours and wallow in his own filth, but there's one thing Belle won't budge on, and that's food. Regular, wholesome meals.
"Warm apple pie," she tells him when he wakes late on Sunday evening, "fresh from the oven. And homemade whipped cream. Open your mouth, sweetheart…" and she spoon-feeds him the dessert like he's a fucking infant. Makes him want to fucking bawl.
Everything makes him want to fucking bawl.
His appetite's gone, of course—food tastes like fucking cardboard when he's on a downswing—but Belle looks so chuffed when he manages more than a few mouthfuls of noodle soup or sweetened rice porridge or her fucking homemade apple pie with whipped cream that he tries to do right by her cooking. It's been lifetimes since someone made him a meal or fussed at him with a napkin, and he wishes he were in his right mind to savor it properly.
"Is it good, Nosty?" she asks, brushing her thumb over his bottom lip to capture some of the flaky, buttery pie crust and afterwards popping the finger into her own mouth. She tried out 'Arran' on him once or twice, but he told her to leave off.
He lies and says her pie is hoora good, pretends he can fucking taste it, pretends he's not so damaged as all that, and Belle looks at him closely, then offers a spoonful of the fresh whipped cream. He manages three more bites before turning away from her warm, fond gaze and the silver spoon held hopefully aloft.
"Pain cuts deep," she murmurs, gently brushing at his stubbled chin with the paper napkin, "but it's not the deepest thing, sweetheart. It passes away, in the end."
"Are you writing my fucking eulogy?" he mutters, and she smothers a small smile, happy to see him rally a bit, chewing on her full lower lip, then taking a bite of the pie for herself.
Of course, his beautiful bird cannot stay by his side day in and day out.
When she leaves him on Saturday to buy groceries and have his key made up, she tucks her sweet-smelling cashmere scarf beneath his rough chin—the very same one from King's College Hospital. Nosty wakes with the smell of Belle's shampoo in his nostrils and the memory of the night she carefully washed him swirling around within his skull. He's still a fucking mess, but—it helps. It really fucking does.
Returning from her brief errands, Belle finds the scarf wrapped snug around his neck and tucked up over his eyes. From then on, it remains within Nosty's nest of blankets, the red tartan pattern stark against the white sheets and cotton duvet. He crumples and twists it within his fists while he's awake and presses it to his mouth and nose while he's asleep, and, by tender, tacit agreement—it belongs to him now.
The nights though—nights are the fucking worst of it.
Belle stays up late, reading aloud while he stares, unblinking, into the darkness: poetry, drama, tales of adventure. Yet, when the moon begins its descent, and her eyelids are too heavy to carry on, she inevitably sets her book aside, switches off the dim bedside lamp, and joins him beneath the blankets.
Even with her soft scarf pressed against the hollow of his cheek, even with her warm body curled around his, even with her wee hand sweetly pressed to his ruined chest, even then—Nosty dreads the impending stretch of hours when he will lie awake, alone with his obsessive, spiraling thoughts: Fucking hopeless. Fucking friendless. Fucking worthless. Fuckinghopelessfuckingfriendlessfuckingworthless.
Makes him want to blink out of fucking existence.
Late on Wednesday afternoon, Nosty's fitful catnap is interrupted by the front door being pulled gently shut. Belle has been away teaching an introductory film studies course, and he's relieved to hear the regular, reassuring sounds of rustling fabric and shuffling papers and jingling keys and her posh high heels clicking over the parquet floor.
Presently, she is standing in the bedroom doorway, sliding off her shoes before crossing the floor to crouch beside her large, disheveled bed. His bed, Belle has promised, more than once, and the thought of that (and the little brass key on the bedside table) leaves his mouth dry and his thoughts muddied. His bed—with conditions?
Or his bed—unconditionally?
After watching the rise and fall of the blankets intently and at some length, Belle whispers, "Are you awake, sweetheart?" and when Nosty stirs within his stale nest, she sheds her yellow lambswool cardigan and sheer silk stockings, undoes the little tortoise shell twist holding up her hair, and crawls in close beside him.
She tucks her knees up so that his meager, bony arse is cradled in her soft lap and twines her arms around his lean frame, giving him a gentle squeeze in lieu of a spoken greeting.
"You were reading the Cummings today." Belle speaks into his thick hair, warming the back of his head with her honeyed breath. She has been drinking from her tumbler of sweetened, milky tea. He fiercely envies the students who get to watch her sip and lecture, week after week, scribbling down her words and staring at her gorgeous, matchless legs. Likely, most of them are in love with her. You'd have to be fucking mad not to fall in love with Belle.
And, yeah, it's true. He was reading the Cummings this morning. Nosty spent a little time sorting through the large stack of books Belle has piled upon her nightstand, hunting for the text of the poem he's come to think of as his poem—his heart, carried within her unblemished heart. He found it within a slim volume titled 100 Selected Poems, and he tucked it away in his fail-safe memory, along with several other by the same author.
He left the book open upon the duvet while dozing.
And, yeah, the unspoken portion of her question is also true: he's been reading, which means he's feeling a little less muddled today. A little less vanquished. Which also means that he's become clear enough to realize that it's time for him to return to his boys and his bridge and his…responsibilities, such as they fucking are.
"It's meant to be spoken," he hears himself saying, because he cannot yet find a way to tell Belle the other thing, "It just lies there flat on the fucking page, looking odd, but when you say it aloud…"
She nods, exhaling contentedly against the back of his neck. His beautiful, peculiar bird loves to hear him talk. She belongs in Bedlam, but he's fucking glad she's here instead.
Belle leaves off stroking his sternum and moves her hand upwards to gently twist and tangle in his locks. Does she have any idea what this fucking does to him, Nosty wonders weakly. The tender twining and the tugging at the roots of his long hair? In his right mind, a similar touch from Belle would have him all but rutting against her leg like some deranged bitch in heat.
This is his most private, furtive fantasy—the one he only allows himself after he's seen the bottom of a bottle of gin—to have his manky hair softly stroked and his rigid cock gently caressed while a loving someone calls him her darling, her treasure, her beloved boy. While a doting lover whispers my sweetheart, and my love, and my precious one, and a hundred other mortifying, impossible endearments, all while tenderly petting his hair and slowly pumping his cock.
It's fucking humiliating, but there it is. He's at half-mast now, just thinking about it.
"I want to ask you something, Nosty, but—I'm certain it will come out horribly. Will you forgive me in advance?"
Belle has begun to use her buffed, polished fingernails on his scalp, tenderly scratching the crown of his head, then traveling downwards along his hot neck, sending an exquisite tremor all along his spine that resonates deep within his heavy, aching balls. Her nails are busy, busy, busy, moving lightly over the top of each of his bony shoulders, then roving upwards to scratch leisurely circles behind his sensitive ears.
"Aye," he replies hoarsely, "I'd forgive you anything."
"Your education. How did you—how did you come by it? From what you've told me, I assume you never went on past primary?"
Oh, that.
Belle's considerate hand moves to his right shoulder blade, scratching along the sharp, gaunt ridge, making him fucking shiver and break out in gooseflesh. Oh yes, he'll tell her this dreary story—any story, in actual fact—if she'll just keep on with the scratching for a little while longer.
"Public libraries, bird. When I was just a wee muppet, sleeping rough and learning the ropes, I kept up a rotation between Holburn, Barbican, and Lambath Palace. Nobody bothers you as long as you're reading a book and not being a fucking bother yourself. So I just found a discrete corner and—and the books were a nice little holiday, yeah? Later on, I used the Uni libraries—half the students are fucking napping anyhow, so it's easy to blend in."
Her warm hand has stilled against his back. "Were you ever at King's College Library? When was this, sweetheart?"
"Aye, I spent some time there. Five years ago or thereabouts."
Belle laughs, his favorite sound in this entire, fucked up, piece o' shite world. "That's where I holed up to write my dissertation, Nosty. We probably overlapped." She laughs again, utterly delighted, and the delicious scrape of her nails over his back resumes.
"I have another question for you." Now Belle sounds playful, almost.
"Eh?" he answers, guardedly.
"I'll be shepherding my Shakespeare class to the Globe tonight to see a dress rehearsal of Othello, and afterwards I'll be taking them out to the pub for a discussion. It's a small class, only ten students, and most of them are quite pleasant and astute. If you're feeling up to it, Nosty…"
"Belle…" Her hand has now reached the very base of his back, but it seems all of his grief has already been wrung from him. "Belle, I can't…"
"Why can't you?" she murmurs, ducking her head to kiss and nibble behind his ear.
"I have to…get back…fuck, Belle…I'm sorry…"
"Don't apologize; it's alright, love," she reassures him, her fingertips traveling downwards to caress the curve of his arse, making him twitch and jerk and hiss through clenched teeth. "I thought I'd ask, but it's truly alright…"
Her tongue darts out, tracing the crease where his ear meets his skull, and her hand reaches for a pillow he's kicked downwards toward the foot of the bed. Belle draws the pillow up between his bent knees, edging them gently apart. "I understand. It's alright, sweetheart…" She kisses along his neck, wetting his quickening pulse point with quick, hot flashes of her tongue, sometimes sucking, sometimes nibbling.
Her left arm slips from beneath his armpit, and then Belle buries her left hand in his hair, gently tugging, gently kneading, and then…her right hand—oh, fuck—and then Belle's right hand has returned to his quivering arse, creeping deliberately downwards until she's got the very root of his rigid cock between her soft fingertips, massaging him slowly, her wrist brushing against his heavy sack and forcing him to groan aloud.
"That's alright, sweetheart. Only when you're ready. Only then, sweet baby…"
Oh, and he fucking moans aloud at that, the most tender of all endearments. Will she give him this most precious, most private fantasy? And how to summon the courage to ask for it when he's already out of his fucking mind with her fingers tangled in his locks and her warm hand rubbing him in that glorious, sensitive, in-between place where his cock disappears into his aching, clenching pelvis?
So again he whispers: "I can't…please, I can't…," just hoping…hoping.
And Belle must understand a little, because she doesn't fucking hesitate. No, she murmurs: "Sweet baby, my sweet baby…" and then she takes the fleshy, wee lobe of his ear between her teeth and sucks. Meanwhile, her fingertips are working the root of him, cupping and caressing him as he pants and shakes and grinds downward.
"Ah…ah fu—…no—"
Words fail him when his beautiful bird extracts her clever hand from between his legs and quickly tugs the cashmere scarf down from beneath his chin. He moans and pleads while Belle ever so gently wraps his cock with the exquisitely soft material and begins to slowly, delicately guide the cashmere along the length of him, easily finding his rhythm. She tightens her grip at the thick, throbbing base of him and loosens it so that she just ghosts over his sensitive, leaking head.
Belle suckles his ear, only pausing to praise her sweet baby, her beautiful boy, her sweet love lavishly when he finally loses control and begins to cry out loudly and rhythmically, matching the tempo of her steady, loving strokes. His mouth hangs open, and his face is contorted.
"Like this, love?" Belle asks, quickening her pace at the slightest upward movement of his hips, "Do you need it harder, baby?" she whispers, kissing his shoulder and tenderly tugging his hair.
"No, no—softer, just like that," he grinds out, "Just like that…ah…"
And so she softly caresses and strokes and cradles the length of him with the cashmere, calling him sweetheart and so good and sweet baby until he's clawing at the bedclothes with curled fingers and throwing his head back against her shoulder and offering Belle his throat to bite and suck while he pleads loudly, senselessly for his release.
When he's too fucking close to think clearly, he babbles: "Please say it, Belle! Ah—please fucking say it!"
And miraculously, she understands him, tenderly crooning: "Sweet Arran…sweet baby…sweet Arran…"
And it's too much; it's too good. His climax abruptly takes him, and Nosty jerks and struggles and pulses within the close embrace of the scarf and his beautiful, beautiful Belle. While he continues to quiver and shake, she kisses his neck, his bony shoulders, his wet earlobe, everywhere her teeth traveled earlier to give him pleasure.
"I still have to leave," he whispers at long last, breathing raggedly, twisting around to bury his face in the warm crook of her neck.
"It's alright, love. Rest a bit. Rest now, sweetheart." And Belle gently strokes his hair while she carefully wipes him clean.