Me: ELI
Eli: love you
I lovemy friends so much, but I always feel disconnected from them, even when in the same room. Maybe it’s the years growing up on the commune, but I never quite feel like I belong. Plus, I’m always just the comedic relief, so it doesn’t feel natural for me to share feelings or emotions. But sometimes I wish I could, especially now that I’m getting more and more tangled up with Nolan. I wish it was easier for me to share how I feel with Eli, Trevor, or even Jackson.
Blowing a wheezy breath through my nose, I roughly toss my phone onto the bed beside me. Nolan moves around restlessly, so I carefully roll onto my side, gently resting my hand at thesmall of his still sleep-warm back. He settles under my touch and tucks his head into the crook of his arm with a soft huff.
Well, now’s the time for me to be sneaky. I use the peaceful quiet of morning to quietly catalog his body, noting all the varying colorful tattoos that cover his skin. The ones over his ribs are rapidly becoming my favorites. The flowers are so intricate, beautifully tattooed as if watercolors on his skin. Those damn skeleton hands are probably runner-ups. Along the expanse of his back is a Grim Reaper with a scythe, his arm reaching out as if trying to take the person looking at Nolan’s back to the depths of hell.
“Stop staring at my tats,” Nolan says gruffly.
“They’re pretty.”
“They’re expensive,” Nolan argues. “Part of the rockstar aesthetic.”
“Don’t you like them?” I ask, running my finger over the broad lines of the reaper.
Nolan shrugs hard as he turns his head in my direction. “They’re fine.”
“What’s your viewpoint on morning kisses?” I want to kiss him so badly.
Nolan’s nose wrinkles even further. “Too intimate.”
“Bummer,” I say sadly.
Nolan’s eyebrows furrow as he carefully appraises me. With a large, put-upon sigh, he heaves himself up onto his elbows and leans over me. His dark messy hair beautifully frames his face. I can’t help but tangle one of my hands in the wavy strands, softly rubbing my thumb at the underside of his defined jaw. There’s an old scar overlapping his left eyebrow that’s faded with age, but it looks like he’s cut a line clear through his eyebrow because of it. Aesthetics, he’d probably say.
Nolan leans down to softly brush his lips over mine, a gentle, barely there kind of kiss. My toes tingle as his lips glide overmine. I fight back every instinct to pull him closer, to delve into his mouth to taste him. Maybe he is right; maybe early morning kisses are too intimate for us, at least at this moment.
He pulls away with a weary sigh to flop back on the bed. His gaze cuts to me as he tangles his fingers in the silky soft sheets.
“What do you normally do on days off?” I ask curiously.
Nolan snorts with a roll of his eyes. “Days off? Far and few between. You’re just here because I’m almost at the end of recording and they want to keep me happy.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“The gods that be.” Nolan turns his head towards me with a calculating, slightly manic sort of look. “There’s a dive bar an hour from here that has great local talent. Wanna go?”
“Hell yeah!” I say around a delighted grin.
Nolan’s eyes get that confused look again before he rubs it away with the heels of his hands. The urge to feed him again is almost unbearable. He looks so fucking tired, despite the vivid color of the tattoos. His skin has this slightly sick pallor to it and there are huge dark bags under his eyes. Sometimes when he moves he seems exhausted just by breathing, just by having to walk a few feet.
“Can I cook breakfast?”
Nolan rolls his eyes. “Can you?”
I grit my teeth against a sarcastic reply. “May I cook you breakfast?”
Nolan points towards the door. “Have at it. I’m going to go back to sleep, so you can bring it to me.”
Nolan burrows back under the blankets with a huff as he tugs the sheets over his head. I leave him to “go back to sleep.” After slipping on my sweatpants, I pad down the hallway to get started on breakfast. The easiest option is scrambled eggs and toast, which is probably more nutrients than Nolan normally gets on a daily basis. I end up adding some cream cheese to the eggs tomake them fluffier and a little fattier. A few ripe avocados sit at the bottom of the crisper drawer, so I add them to the toast like the spoiled yuppie I’ve become. At least that’s what Mama says.
Nolan is still curled into a ball under the sheets when I return to the bedroom.
“Breakfast,” I call out.
Nolan peeks his head out from under the blanket to judge the food options. He sniffs once, twice, then shrugs as if in awful acceptance of the meal. I sit down crisscross applesauce beside him and dig into my own plate of eggs. Nolan accepts the fork I offer him with a weary, cornered-animal sort of look. But after the first bite of eggs, his shoulders lose their tension and he shovels the food down as if I might take it away before he can finish his share.
