In Like With You

I force my key into Chris's door and my need to puke is so great that I almost fforget to slam the door behind me and lock it.

I don't even remember flying across the living room. All I remember is the familiar white banality of the toilet, the burger and the fries and the cheese and bacon flying out. Evacuating the premises. It comes and it comes and it doesn't stop and I squeeze my eyes shut and wrap my arms around the toilet bowl and brace myself. I taste blood and food and acid clogs my throat and coats my stomach. As much as I don't want to admit, tears force their way out of my eyes and fall into the toilet and I gasp for breath.

As full as I was minutes ago, I'm totally empty.

I reach up and tiredly flush the toilet. My chest is burning and my fingers are aching and I'm tired. I'm so tired. I sit there for about an hour, just breathing and waiting for the next wave to come. I just wait. It will come.

It happens and I endure it and I flush. It happens again and I repeat my actions. I'm a broken record, but I try to be patient. Puke, flush, breathe, wait. Over and over. I forget where I am. Hell follows me wherever I go.

Sixty minutes feels like lifetimes and by the time I get up my entire body is shaking. I need a bath. I need water.  I need more food but I cannot do it. I'm so tired of the toilet.

I pull myself to my feet and I make myself sip water from the faucet and I don't look at myself. Off come my clothes and off goes the bathroom lights and I turn towards the bathtub (why it's there, I have no clue-Chris doesn't take baths) and the hot water feels so good that my eyes roll to the back of my head. I usually don't take baths without liquor and I miss it more then ever but I make myself enjoy the heat of the water. There are jets but I don't bother with them. I just try to breathe in and out and enjoy the heat and the darkness. My insides are lurching but I ignore it.

Time passes.

The bath is over and I dry myself off slowly and dress in loose pajamas and shuffle to the kitchen. I leave off the lights because my head is aching dully. My mouth is dry and I yank open the fridge but when I see the liquor, I freeze.

Beautiful bottles filled with beautiful liquid that make me feel so amazing. Six packs of beer. A bottle of Captain Morgan. Grey Goose. Cicadas. My stomach aches in longing and I clench my teeth and I start to reach for one and I don't know why but I'm-

I stumble backwards and my entire ass is submerged in the mud, but all I can see is the hand. The goddamn hand.

The hand that used to hold me when I was a baby, the hand that would discipline and punish, the hand that wiped my tears when I cried, the hand that cradled my face only weeks ago with sympathy, with understanding, with non-judgmental love. Somewhere underneath that hand are eyes and a mouth and a soul and all of it is being choked by mud and bugs and filth. All that love is buried under this stink and this awful fucking heat.

It's all my fault.

I start shaking. Horror fills me, chokes me, paralyzes me. My fingernails are grating into the side of the splintered doorframe. Tears come but they don't fall and I just sit there in the mud and stare.

It's all my fault.

The cicadas get louder and louder as the sun starts its slow descent and I cannot yell for help or scream in terror and I know I must do both but I cannot. All I can do is remember how that hand felt against my skin.

I had been on my knees, my head bowed, I had been doing penance to the only person in my life that I had genuine respect for. I had felt a touch on my head that felt like a blessing that no ordained priest could give me, and the hand cupped my cheek and gently raised my face. Our eyes met and I saw no judgment. All I could feel was the love I had gotten automatically, unconditionally, since the day I was born. That was the last time I honestly felt I had any strength left, any real drive to change my life and for the better. And I had fucking done this. I had committed murder; I might as well been the levee that broke.

I want a drink, I want fifty fucking drinks. I want a bag of coke and I want to snort it and bump it and smoke it until I become obsolete. I want to find a bathtub and drown myself in it. No. No. No.

This is not happening.

I was so absorbed in my horror that I did not hear the squelching noise of mud being separated by footsteps, I did not see or acknowledge Christobel's presence until she was two steps away from me. I snapped back to Earth in a blind panic and I turned towards her, my hands outstretched, trying to keep her from seeing.  Movie slow motion. Her mouth moved, but nothing came out. Before I could kick her or push her away, her eyes flicked into the room. The hand. The goddamn hand.

Christobel screamed.

It was loud and immediate and the sound snapped back on in my world as if someone had flipped a switch labeled HELL. She tried to scramble into the room but I wrapped my arms around her from behind and restrained her. Screaming. Horrible screaming. I clenched my teeth and held her tighter and Christobel's fingernails raked against the side of the doorway, trying to gain leverage to push me off, but I was much stronger. Screaming and sobbing and flailing. I will remember that scream until the day I die.

"Let me go! Let me go!" Christobel sobbed, and I shook my head roughly, my feet scrabbling to gain purchase on the mud covered floor below us.

"Goddammit, Christobel, it's over, we can't help her!"

"Nyx, let me fucking go!" But Christobel sagged in my arms and all the fight went out of her and the cicadas buzzed outside the broken windows and every particle of my being wanted to get the fuck away from her and get drunk.

Christobel wailed in my arms and the sound hurt my ears and annoyed and frustrated and scared me. I bit my lip and closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against the back of her shoulder.

It had been years since we had really touched, besides trying to beat the shit out of each other. She smelled stale and dirty and her entire body was trembling and shaking. I cursed to myself and did not allow myself to cry.  I couldn't.

"Christobel, you have to be tough.." I murmured, and she laughed brokenly, her words barely discernable through her crying.

"You want me to be tough?"

I slowly let her go and stood up, my legs shaking and my back aching. "Yes," I said quietly, looking down at my younger cousin. "We have to be tough."

Christobel let out a howl of anger and struggled to stand up and face me. When she got to her feet, our faces were inches apart. I stood my ground and I stared at her evenly, my eyes dry compared to hers, wet and red and swollen.

"You have nerve to sit there and say that, Nyx, when you're the one who let this happen."

Fire overcame my dull senses. Murder. I'm going to murder her. Even if her words are true, I'm going to kill her for that, my own cousin.

My hands clenched so hard at my sides that I felt the fingernails cutting into my flesh. The urge to suffocate her in this dank mud was so overwhelming that it scared me. Christobel, unlike every time before, didn't back down. She glared at me, knowing how badly I wanted to hurt her for this, mostly because it's true.

Instead of killing her, I reached forward and grabbed a hank of her hair in my dirty, gloved hand. Christobel tried to scream but I twisted until I had an entire handful, and I yanked her towards me. My mouth at her ear, the smell of death in my nose. She smelled like stale sweat.

"Is that so? Then who the fuck was the bitch who had a chance to come here and see her before it happened, and passed it up to go to the fucking mall? Who the fuck sat here for almost a month and talked to her and spent time with her and helped her when she was sick? Who the fuck did that, Christobel? YOU!? Answer me, you fucking bitch!" I shook her and she stared crying again and despite my words, I knew none of it mattered.

I scowled in disgust and the tears were coming and I couldn't take this anymore, I couldn't take the smell and the sight and the shattered memories that are crowding in with us in this suffocating hallway. I let go of Christobel's hair and I left her alone with the hand, staggering down the hallway, blind.

I left her to spend some quality time with the hand because this is all she's going to get. The tears came and I restrain the urge to wipe them away with my dirty hand. The truth followed me out of the room and attached itself to my hip, where it still remains to this day.

I was there, but not when it mattered.

I withdraw my hand like it's been shocked and I can feel tears welling up in my eyes and that goddamn smell of death clogging my nostrils, even though I'm miles away from that place and that time. Wherever I go, it follows.

I'm breathing heavily and I'm sweating and I want that fucking beer more then anything. Just one. Just one to give the world that dull fuzz.

The cicadas sear through my eardrums and I bite out a curse and slam the refrigerator door. I hurry out of Chris's kitchen, denying my nature once again.

Don't be proud of me.

I'm not.

Chris called around ten o'clock. I was balled up in one of his leather armchairs in the dark, watching Scarlett run out of the Confederate Hospital, sick of death and disease, a woman making her own choice. Smart girl, O'Hara.

I picked up the phone and I smiled to myself as I saw his name on the display. I answered it and turned down the volume.

"Hey, Baio."

"Hey, babe. What are you up to?" Chris sounded exhausted.

I shrugged, his voice sending little points of loneliness stabbing into my heart. "Chillin. Watching a movie on this huge TV you've got. Why do you need to see boogers and earwax on this thing, anyway? Is it necessary to be THAT intimate with your fellow celebrity?"

Chris snickered. "Trust me, when I bought it, I wasn't looking for boogers or earwax. What are you watching?"

I shrugged, my eyes following Scarlett as she and Rhett exchanged words in a carriage, baiting each other. Lying about who they really were.

"Oh, you know, action movies. Transformers, Die Hard, you know."

I heard him smile. "No chick flicks?"

I scoffed and turned away from my favorite movie. Sorry, Rhett and Scarlett. Duty calls.

"Fuck chick flicks. You sound beat."

He groaned. "God, I am. I should be home in about an hour or two, though. We're trying to get as much done as we can."

I grinned, tracing idle designs in the soft leather with my fingernail. "Well, get back to work, then, Baio, so you can get back here."

Chris's laugh was soft and teasing, his voice dropping to a low hum. "Oh, trust me, I will. I never thought I'd say this, but I can't wait to come home."

I couldn't help it; I flushed at his words and Chris heard my soft little intake of breath, which made him snicker appreciatively. I heard somebody yell his name and he groaned.

"Sweetie, I gotta go. Ernie is busting my ass. I need to go put him in his place."

I let out a very exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Go beat up on your boyfriend, if you must."

Chris smacked a kiss into the phone. "See you in awhile, babe."

"Big kiss. Muah."

He didn't hang up immediately. I could feel his hesitation from across the line. The silence was begging to be filled but I couldn't say it and I was afraid he would. These moments were getting to be standard in our phone conversations. Too standard, and too uncomfortable. I bit my lip. I heard his name being yelled again.

"Go, Chris." I said softly.

He sighed. "Bye."

"Bye." I whispered, but didn't end the call until the dial tone hummed in my ear. I let out a deep breath and put my phone aside, burying my face in my hands.

This was impossible.

By the time Chris pulled into his driveway, it was past midnight and there was a light rain falling. His headlights washed over a Louisiana license plate and he bit his lip and killed the motor.

He was exhausted-bone tired and dirty and his brain felt like someone had taken it and wrung it out over a slop bucket. Recording was hell, he thought wryly, I had almost forgot. Singing the lead alone was a hell of a lot more different then having four others backing you up. Fewer margins for error and the pressure was unbelievable. For once, Chris felt a pang of sympathy for Justin.

The windows of his house were dark but the porch light was on and Chris turned off the headlights, but he didn't get out of the car. He just sat there in the dark, wrestling with the combating feelings of excitement and strangeness of having somebody else home before he was, waiting on him.  Usually it was just the liquor and the Unrequited Truth and Chris hadn't realized how lonely, really, he had been.

Come on man, snap out of it, Nyx is waiting.

Chris shook his head, blinking back the fatigue, grabbing his cell phone and hopping out of his car. The rain felt cool on his skin and with every step he took, despite his exhaustion, he felt his excitement mount. Nyx was inside, waiting on him. He shook his head, a wry smile on his lips, taking out his keys and unlocking his front door. Look at you, the Undisputed Truth jeered, acting like a girl.

He ignored that thought and stepped into his foyer, shutting the wet, cold world out. The house was dark but warm and Chris reached over to turn on the light, thinking that Nyx was upstairs in bed.

But the light illuminated his living room and he saw her, curled up in his armchair, her neck bent into her chest, a Steelers blanket falling off of her legs. She was fast asleep and Chris paused, lingering at the edge of his foyer, just watching her.

Every time he saw her, it was the same old thing. Lust, admiration, amazement, fear. He feared her because of the strength of her own character and sometimes when she got annoyed with Christobel or work, Chris could not ignore uneasiness in the pit of his stomach and always thanked God that she wasn't angry at him. She took on the world like an armored tank but when he caught her in these rare moments, she looked barely out of high school, unable to hurt a fly, almost heart-wrenching in her vulnerability. Warmth filled his throat and spread throughout his body and Chris heard the Undisputed Truth chuckle in his head.

So this is what it's all about, Kirkpatrick. This is what you've been too busy partying to enjoy.

Chris ignored this and crossed the dark living room, sitting on the couch to yank off his shoes, trying not to make any noise. Nyx didn't move an inch as he kneeled down in front of the chair she sat in, and Chris knew he should let her sleep, but he could not help himself-he ran his thumb across the back of her hand. Nyx twitched, but her eyes did not open. She absently yanked on the Steelers blanket, pulling it closer around her, unconsciously running her tongue across her bottom lip. Chris's heart stuttered in his chest.

He yanked gently on the blanket and one of Nyx's eyelids lifted to blearily focus on him.

"Hi." He whispered, and a slow smile broke out on her mouth.

"Hey, Kirkpatrick. You're finally here. What time is it?" Nyx stretched, yawned, rolled her neck around to crack it. As tired as Chris was, it was hard to restrain himself from throwing her over his shoulder and dragging her upstairs like a caveman.

"Around midnight." He replied, his hands slipping underneath the Steelers blanket to rub her bare legs. Nyx snickered.

"So the boys wore you out all day and then give me the spoils, huh?"

Chris gently tugged her closer to the edge of the chair. "Nah," he shook his head, slipping his hands underneath her shirt in the back, the heat of her skin searing his hands. "you know I always have a back up stash of Red Bull and Pixie Stix to get ready for you."

Nyx's fingers curled in his hair and the corner of her mouth tipped in that infuriating way that Chris could not resist. "I would hope so, old man."

Chris's eyebrow raised. "Girl, who are you calling ‘old man'? Last time you called me out on that shit, I wore that ass out."

She sniggered. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Kirkpatrick."

Chris snorted. "If I weren't so damn hungry, I'd make you pay for that."

Nyx shook her head, sighing good naturedly. "They don't feed you over there while you're trying to make them rich and famous?"

He shook his head. "I don't think about food until I walk out of there, babe. Everything else goes right out of my brain when I'm recording."

Nyx wrapped her legs around his waist and nuzzled his neck. "Even me?" he heard her whisper, and Chris took a deep breath. She smelled like cotton and leather and satsuma. His fingers toyed with her bra strap.

"You're the reason I can't wait to leave." He muttered back, and Nyx playfully nipped at his neck.

"Is that so? Are the guys unhappy with me about that?"

Chris shook his head. "They're good guys and I love em', but they don't have boobs."

Nyx laughed and the sound of it made chills roll down Chris's spine.

"Well, since you have such a flattering way of appreciating my company, I guess now's the time to tell you that there's a pizza in the kitchen with your name on it."

Chris's stomach rumbled but he ignored it, his mouth finding hers and loving the small gasp of surprise that she emitted into his mouth. She tasted like toothpaste and mint and he ran his hands up her hips, catching her t-shirt and pulling it over her head. She shivered and he loved it, loved that he had that effect on her.

Her mouth was hot and supplicating under his; her teeth gently caught his bottom lip and nipped at it, and Chris groaned. His hands pressed against her bare back and slid up until they tangled in her hair. Weariness was gone and Chris was painfully hard underneath his jeans, all thoughts of food forgotten.

He slowly leaned her back into the armchair, his bad knee aching but not feeling it, still unable to stop devouring her mouth, which kept giving as good as it was getting. Chris reached down, not breaking the kiss, slipping his hand underneath her knee and pulling her leg against his side. Nyx let out a ragged breath as they briefly broke for air. He didn't give her time to say his name or protest-he just pressed against her, watching her in dazed amazement as her eyes widened, feeling him. Her leg pressed against his back, forcing him closer, and Chris closed his eyes and kissed her again, softly this time.

He couldn't explain why he needed her so badly, so much, all of a sudden. All that he knew is that she was here and there was dinner in his kitchen and this was scarily wonderful and unfamiliar and he wanted to thank her in the only way she let him. Chris licked her bottom lip and Nyx moaned and tried to return the favor, but he pulled back, pushing her chin up with his nose, his lips leaving trails of wetness down her throat. His fingers fumbled briefly with her bra strap but by now he had a practiced hand and it came loose. Nyx's fingers were biting gently into the soft leather and Chris smiled against her skin-he loved it when he rendered her speechless like this, he lived for it.

He let his mouth press against the swell of one breast, then the other, dragging it out, each kiss nudging her bra aside. He felt her fingers play dazedly with his hair, run gently across the back of his neck, and Chris let out a groan against her skin, abandoning her breasts and kissing his way down her stomach, ignoring the burning in his knee.

She was wearing a pair of gray boxer briefs but he had no patience for them; Chris hooked his fingers into the sides and pulled them down her legs. Nyx gasped and her head flew up in alarm, but he splayed his fingers across her stomach and shook his head, keeping her gaze locked in his.

Chris bent his head and licked at her slowly, barely letting her feel his tongue against her. Her back arched, her teeth caught her bottom lip and bit down, her fingernails scratched at his shoulder. She tasted like thick honey and Chris moaned and pressed his lips tighter against her, his arms locked hard around her thighs. His heart was pounding in his ears and though he loved tasting her he needed to be inside her before he went fucking crazy, went absolutely spare. He tore his mouth away and staggered to his feet, yanking down his pants in such a hurry that he almost fell on top of her as he tried to kick his jeans off. Nyx curled her fingers into his shirt, her eyes begging, pleading, heavy lidded. Wanted him. She wanted him.

Chris didn't need any more encouragement and he slid his arm around her back and pulled her body to sit up, her legs over his shoulders. One fluid movement and he was inside her and it was like a sledgehammer straight to the head, a rabbit hole he couldn't stop falling into. He ground out her name and braced himself against the back of the armchair, where her arms were holding on for dear life. The world ceased to be one where he was Chris Kirkpatrick and he had obligations and constraints and a name to live up to, even in the smallest sense. All he was at the moment was at this woman's mercy, even if he thought he held the upper hand. He had wanted to be gentle but he could not stop these almost animalistic movements. Each thrust felt like someone squeezing his heart and his bad knee was killing him, but oh God, Nyx felt good, too good to stop. Her hips were shifting and she was whimpering his name (don't stop, Chris, go faster, faster) and he could not slow down, could not do anything but obey.

Sweat beaded on his forehead and her legs were pushing him deeper and Chris half moaned, half winced as she clenched her muscles.

"Jesus..." His arms felt like wrung out spaghetti and his thighs were killing him but seeing her eyes roll to the back of her head was worth it and Chris knew he wouldn't be able to hang on for much longer.

He stopped moving and rearranged his aching hands from where they clasped the back of the chair. Nyx's growl of indignation made him smile shakily, and Chris leaned in and fused his mouth to hers, their lips wet and hot and their faces sweaty. He moved slower but thrust harder and with each one, Nyx's body would shudder, pinned between him and the chair. His knees were almost slipping on the slick leather and his hands were killing him but oh God he was coming and oh God it was like a blinding white headache and Nyx was clenching and bucking and Chris bit his tongue (oh God what am I doing) but it was too late. Their eyes met and there was terror and knowing but it was already done. 

"I..."

It was always too late.

 This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin

You tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in

And now you're outside me, you see all the beauty

Repent all your sin

I chose to feel it and you couldn't choose

I'll write you a postcard, I'll send you the news

From the house down the road from real love

Live through this and you won't look back

Live through this and you won't look back
 

There's one thing I have to say so I'll be brave

You were what I wanted

I gave what I gave

I'm not sorry I met you

I'm not sorry it's over

I'm not sorry there's nothing to save

I'm not sorry there's nothing to save