Tattoos & Teacups

by Anna Martin

  I open the door and he’s standing there, his leathers covered in water and shaking as he trembles from the cold.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper.

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  I step aside to let him in, completely baffled by his presence. We stand in silence, looking at each other, until I reach out and tug the zipper on his jacket. It seems to be the signal he had been waiting for to strip out of his protective clothing, although his shirt underneath seems almost soaked through.

  “Where’s your stuff?” I ask.

  “Down on the bike,” he says. His lips look almost blue from the cold.

  “Get in the shower before you freeze,” I say to him. “I’ll go bring it in.”

  The wind is biting cold and the rain is still hammering down as I dash out to his bike and unload the bags he has attached to it. I’m soaked too by the time I get back to the flat, and I can hear the shower is running, so at least he’s getting warm.

  There’s no precedent for this, and I have absolutely no idea what to do. So I lock up, bolting the front door and making sure Flea has food, then find two pairs of pajama pants from the drawer and set one pair out for Chris, dressing in the other myself.

  It’s still early, but the rain and black clouds outside are making it seem later than it really is—although it’s always been dark in this flat. I don’t want to go to bed, not really, but I want to talk to him about it all even less, so sleeping is a good compromise.

  He’s wrapped in my towel when he comes out of the bathroom, and I realize that all the others are in with my laundry. I’m not upset but once again reminded of his familiarity in my home and the way he seems to slot seamlessly into my life.

  Chris looks down at the pajama pants with a little frown, then dries off his hair, and the last droplets of water from his skin.

  I try not to stare.

  I wondered if maybe he would have put on weight or lost it since I saw him last. His absolute normality is somehow more shocking than if he looked radically different. It feels like I’ve changed so much in the months since he left that it’s left a tangible sheen on my skin, like a snake shedding the old and leaving something shiny and raw underneath. I’m shiny and raw now, but he looks just the same as I remember.

  Or not the same. I’ve probably elevated him to godlike status in my memories. He’s not as perfect as I want to remember him. He’s still got chunky thighs, and his hair needs cutting, and… and… no. He’s just perfect.

  After he’s pulled the pajamas on, I lift the duvet for him and he lies down next to me, still not saying anything about why he’s here… why he’s back. Why he’s home. Chris is on “his” side of the bed, and I curve my body around his and slot my knees into the bend of his and quietly tell him to lift his head so my arm can pillow it.

  He sighs deeply and snuggles back into my body, taking my hand and pulling my arm closer to his chest.

  “I missed you so fucking much,” he says.

  “Don’t,” I tell him. “Not tonight. Let’s just go to sleep.”

  After a few minutes he starts to shake, and even though his skin is warm from the shower, I think that maybe the cold has gone all the way down through muscle and sinew right into his bones. All I can do is hold him tighter until the trembling stops, and even then I keep hold of him tight until we’re both deep in sleep.

  THE next morning he’s rolled over and his face is pressed right up against my chest, distorting his nose and making him snore. It makes me smile, and he grumbles as I start to pull away, desperate not to leave him, but I have to.

  “No,” he mumbles and reaches for me.

  “I have a lecture this morning,” I say to him.

  Chris mumbles something else and starts to snore again so I go and take a shower, let the cat out, and make a cup of coffee because I think I’m going to need the caffeine kick for the day ahead. When I go back into our bedroom, he’s sitting up and blinking at me, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes like a child.

  “There’s more coffee in the pot,” I say softly.

  “Rob,” he says, then clears his throat. “We didn’t get to talk last night.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I really do have to run, my lecture is at nine thirty. But I can get the TA to take the seminar so I should be home by twelve-ish.”

  He nods, then sneezes three times in rapid succession and shivers. “You look hot, Prof.”

  “And you look sick,” I counter. He smiles warily at that.

  “I’ve been on the road for a while.”

  I don’t want to think about that quite yet, I’m not ready to face the possibility that he’s driven halfway across the country to see me again and I’m not even sure if he’s staying. I scratch my chin absently, then pick up a scarf from the chair next to the door and wrap it around my neck.

  “Please… please stay?” I say. “I won’t be long. But I have to take this lecture.”

  He nods again.

  “Where else am I going to go?”

  I don’t want to think about that and determinedly don’t as I head out into the damp, freezing morning toward the campus and my lecture hall. The only thing that saves me for the ninety minutes I’m delivering the lecture is the fact that I’ve spent the past few weeks working like crazy, either on the book or on my lesson plans. Due to that my material is exceptional, as are my notes, and I manage to hold at least twenty percent of the class’s attention, which I consider a massive success.

  I can only think that it would be nice if I could hold my own attention as well.

  At the beginning of the year, the departmental heads and university gods bestowed upon me a reasonably competent TA, and I’m happy to leave her in charge of the seminar, especially considering the quality of my prepared material.

  Kelly doesn’t look particularly pleased to be given charge of the two-hour discussion, but that’s her problem and not mine. I wish that my only problem was having to engage a class of bored freshmen, but mine is much more complex. I consider offering her the chance to swap and for her to deal with a sick maybe-ex-boyfriend while I take the freshmen, but she doesn’t know Chris and she’d probably only try and steal him from me.

  The skank.

  “Skank” is one of Chloe’s words and I’ve decided I like it, and in Kelly’s case it’s particularly apt.

  The temptation to break all speeding and road traffic laws to get back to him is huge, but I force myself to Drive Like a Christian (another of Chloe’s terms) and stop by Chris’s favorite deli on the way home to buy him some chicken soup and a couple of sandwiches and fresh orange juice. The drugstore next door provides me with painkillers in case he needs those too, and I force myself not to buy anything else until I’ve properly assessed how sick he really is.

  It’s only a short drive back to the flat from the deli, and I nearly weep with relief when I see that his bike is still outside.

  He’s still in there. He hasn’t left.

  He’s still in there. He hasn’t left. Oh, shit.

  Shit.

  Foolishly, I hope he’s sleeping when I get in, either on the sofa or in bed to delay our inevitably difficult conversation for just a little while longer, but he’s awake. Sitting on the sofa, with the blanket from the end of the bed on his lap and the cat on the blanket and still wearing my pajamas.

  I hold up the bag from the deli and say, “Chicken soup.”

  He smiles, and it’s a smile I recognize as belonging to me, and it means maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

  “Chicken soup sounds great.”

  I don’t want him to have to move, so I fix a tray in the kitchen with the soup and the sandwiches and the juice and coffee, just in case he’s hungry, and kick Flea off his lap to set it down. I get a pout (from the cat) for that, but I couldn’t care less.

  Chris is home.

  THE prospect of a conversation neither of us wants to have or will like hangs over us for a while as he eats his sandwich and soup and I sit
in the armchair next to him, afraid to get too close. His appetite gives me the hope that he can’t be that sick, really, he’s probably just caught a cold.

  More than anything else in the whole world, I want to take him back to bed and hold him again, to feel his weight in my arms so that I can know, without a doubt, that he’s real.

  When he’s done, Chris puts the tray down at his side and looks over to me.

  “Are you mad?” he whispers with his eyes low.

  “What?” I demand. “No. Why on earth would I be mad at you?”

  He studies his hands and shrugs. “Because I left.”

  “No,” I say softly, the urge to go to him now overwhelming. “No, I’m not mad, baby. I know why you had to go. I’m just very confused as to why you’re back.”

  “Is it too painfully cheesy to say that I missed you too much?” he says with what I now think of as his patented smirk. His eyes seem brighter now that he’s eaten, his skin healthier.

  “It’s not cheesy,” I say. “But it’s not enough.”

  When he sighs deeply and looks away from me, I start to understand that this goes deeper than a fleeting whim to see me again.

  “Have you been following us online?”

  The band have been keeping a blog and a Twitter account going, as well as their mind-bogglingly frequent Facebook updates. For a while I would check in, telling myself that I just wanted to make sure he was doing okay. But that was more painful than just letting him go, so after a few weeks I stopped altogether.

  “The last thing I heard was that you got to Chicago safely.”

  Mental calculation flashes across his face as he counts back to how long ago that was. Then he nods.

  “Yeah. Chicago was good.”

  “Then?” I prompt him. I’m such a masochist.

  “A couple of weeks ago, we started putting the word out that we were looking for a replacement drummer.” Instead of looking apologetic, he looks defiant. “Sam called us a few days later, I spent some time with her teaching her the beats, then I started traveling back.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve never had this before,” he says, gesturing to the space between us. “And I suppose I might find it again if I look hard enough. But I don’t want to go looking again. I want you.”

  “The band, though….”

  “The band won’t make it,” he says bluntly. “We’re good but nowhere near good enough. They’re my best friends and my family, and I love them to bits. And this whole thing, touring the country and playing every city on the way, yeah, it was a dream.

  “You know Lexi and John are having a baby?” he says suddenly. I shake my head. “Yeah. She’s only just, you know, knocked up and whatever. But he’s already put a ban on her crowd surfing.”

  “So he should,” I say with a smile.

  “They’re going to come back here to have the baby. Lex loves the area, and John’s grandparents are here.”

  “What about Danny?”

  “Danny’s good enough that if he wants to make it, he will.”

  I’d always wondered if Danny was the odd one out from the group. He sort of stood on the fringe a little bit, and although the chemistry was there when they played, he never seemed as close to the others. It made sense that he would maybe try to go solo or join another group.

  “I’ve had a lot of road time to think about this,” Chris says carefully. “It wasn’t an easy trip back. If I didn’t want to be here, I’ve had plenty of time to turn around.”

  “I’m really grateful you didn’t,” I say.

  “Rob, I don’t think we should live here,” he says in a rush. “Not that there’s anything wrong with your apartment, but it’s sort of… small.”

  “Okay.” The word is long, stretched out to make up for its inadequacy.

  “We should look for a house together. Somewhere with enough space for you to be able to work and for me to be able to practice and play without us killing each other. And if we get a house, then we can look for somewhere with enough bedrooms that Chloe can come and stay sometimes.”

  It starts to dawn on me that he wants for us to live together. It takes a while for this thought to settle in my head; it runs through the different parts of my brain like treacle—rational, emotional, instinctive, subconscious….

  “And because it’s going to take a while to sort all of that out, moving, I mean, by the time we’re ready, then John and Lexi will probably be just about ready to move back. So I thought they could sublet this place.”

  “I own the apartment,” I say, as if that’s relevant.

  “Then you could rent it to them. Your office isn’t that big, but it’s big enough for a nursery, and they won’t want a massive place at first anyway.”

  “Hang on,” I tell him, raising my hands. “I need to get this straight. You want to live with me, move out, get a house, and have your friends live here.”

  “That’s part of it. Yes.”

  “You want to live with me,” I repeat, since this is the crux of the matter.

  “I want to spend my life with you,” he says in a quiet, scared voice. I realize that all of my dithering has probably scared the boy into insanity, and I feel pretty bloody close to breaking point myself.

  “Oh, God.”

  Too late, it dawns on me that I’m probably having a panic attack, and at the most inopportune moment. Chris throws back the blanket from his lap and falls to his knees in front of me, guiding me to put my head between my knees in a calm, gentle voice.

  It takes a few minutes for me to stop hyperventilating, and during that time Chris’s hand never stops its movements through my hair. From this close I can smell him and can tell that he hasn’t showered again yet. He still smells a little bit like me, from the shower gel he used last night, but more than that he smells like him.

  My heart hadn’t just broken when he left. It had shattered.

  Finally I start to come back to my senses, and he’s still there, watching me with his pretty eyes that are full of equal parts amusement and worry.

  “Are you back in the land of the living?” he says, teasing me, and I love him even more for it.

  “I think so.”

  Clearly not, because when I try to sit up, I get an almighty head rush.

  “Woah.”

  Chris leans in and presses his lips to mine. It’s unexpected, this kiss, with his hands braced either side of me on the arms of the chair. I respond almost explosively, wrapping my hand around the back of his neck and pulling him close to me. I can’t stand not touching him anymore, and even though we’re not done with this conversation and there’s still a lot for me to get my head around, at least I know that he’s not about to leave.

  He’s smiling against me as I pull him up onto my lap and laughs brightly as I figure out the best way to keep him balanced there. He wriggles a little bit, then rests his head against my chest and sighs.

  “Sorry about that,” I murmur into his hair.

  “The freak-out or the kiss?”

  “Both. Neither.”

  He laughs again and turns his cheek. I recognize the move, which places his lips right in alignment with my own, and there’s no harm, no harm at all with leaning in and brushing my lips over his.

  “So, are you up for it?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “Let’s do it.”

  He scrambles from my lap with a stupid grin on his face that just makes me love him more, if that’s even possible. When he reaches for my hands, I let him tug me to my feet and lead me through to my bedroom, which I better start thinking of as ours now.

  Chris pulls of my pajama pants, and of course he’s not wearing anything underneath them, so when he lies back on my too-small bed, it’s just him, perfect and naked and waiting for me.

  I’ve left my shoes at the front door and can’t be bothered to take anything else off; pouncing on him and pinning him to the bed while we kiss seems far more important. And it’s somehow very erotic, me being fully clothed i
n my work clothes while this man, this impetuous, amazing man, is nude beneath me.

  “Are you sure this is okay?” I ask him. “You’re not catching a cold, are you?”

  “Rob,” he says in that voice that no one else is allowed to use, with the nickname only he can ever get away with saying, “I wanted you to fuck me last night and you didn’t. If you don’t fuck me now, I might actually die.”

  I laugh and kiss him again, and the warm slide of his tongue on mine, his soft, wet lips caressing mine so sweetly is all I need. All I need right now and forever and ever because he’s mine.

  His body is warm. Not so warm that I’m still worried about being sick; more the type of warm that comes from sleeping in and then curling up on the sofa with a blanket and watching TV for most of the morning and not doing anything else. The lazy bugger.

  “This is mine now,” I tell him, running my hand possessively down his side. “No one else gets to touch you.”

  “No one has touched me since the first time you did,” he whispers to me. “Ever since I had you, I didn’t want anyone else.”

  There’s a part of me that still questions if it’s all real—that is, until I’m all the way inside him again with the feel of his breath on my cheek and his hand on my hip, the other in my hair. All of this is home. And I know now that my home is where he is, not this little apartment that has been too small for me for years but a real home where we can make it ours.

  After, he’s quiet, and the late afternoon sunshine warms the room. When Flea jumps onto the bed to join in our snuggle, Chris welcomes him without any hesitation.

  “He missed you, you know.”

  “Of course he did. Me and Flea, we have a connection.”

  “You’re the only person on the bloody planet he likes.”

  Chris snorts and kisses the top of my head. I lose one of his arms to the cat, who is demanding scratches behind his ears.

  “Chloe misses you too,” I say, deciding that this is an okay topic of conversation.

  “Really?”