Lorcan - water (E5)

“Fuck me,” he says as he looks at his wet leather jacket. Usually it’s a hulking badass thing that has the added benefit of making him look bigger. Now it’s just a droopy mess. He doesn’t know how the hell to even wash this shit. 

He’ll have to ask Gran and she’ll be all noisy and start with those damn questions. She’ll lose it if she finds out he walked Crowny home. 

He throws the leather jacket on the bed and starts stripping off his wet clothes that uncomfortably stick to his shivering moist skin. He hates tight clothes, it makes him feel more naked than actually being naked would feel. He would know, he streaked through the school once for 20 bucks. 

He walks to the bathroom and turns on the water. He steps in and lets the water run down his head, making sure it's near-scolding. The gentle sensation of water running down his scalp makes him sigh contentedly. 

He loves showers. He loves how it can work like music and block out everything else. Most people are keenly aware of their bodies when they wash themselves but he isn’t. It’s like he’s a formless being whose existence is confined to the parameters of his small shower tub. 

His mind wanders to the usual fantasy he gets when he’s in here. Fingers gently slide down his back, making his shoulders flex. They stop before his hips and hug him, pressing his back to their chest. Circular motions caress his stomach muscles that flinch pleasantly. 

He smells her scent, the one that no matter how much she would shower would always cling to her skin. Only here can he vividly sniff the aroma as if she were right behind him. He has tried so long to describe it but words fail him as they usually do. She always said she wished he was more romantic.

How could he begin to tell her the depths of his feelings for her? Did such words exist? He might’ve been too stupid to know them. He tried to write them but it would always turn out pathetic. Would it have been enough to say that his love for her was indescribable?

Nah, she would’ve thought it was a copout. But still he imagines she must know now. Don’t some religions believe that? Everything he’s doing for her, she has to know now. Maybe that’s why she’s here. 

A smaller voice in his head tells him he’s delusional. She’s not really here and she won’t be here ever again but that voice makes the arms around him feel cold, it makes his eyes hurt and his throat close. Can’t he just have this little moment of peace before faced with the cold water of reality?

Please.

He covers those cold hands with his own and brings them up to his lips, placing tender kisses on her fingertips that taste of blood and mud. 

Why? He presses his mouth to one and stays there trying to understand why it doesn't taste like her. The fingertips are rough, not her usual smooth skin. He puts a fingertip in his mouth and licks it. 

It makes his penis twitch and he tries to push that desire down. Not everything needs to be about sex. But he misses her so much and her fingers don’t taste the same but that’s ok because he will love her no matter her flavour. 

“Orla,” he whispers into her palm. 

She digs her fingers into his skin and he sighs. A smile stretches on his lips and he turns around. Sometimes if he tries hard enough he can see her for a brief hazy moment as the water slips down his eyelashes.

His mouth forms her name once more as the image he desires appears before him. 

Their skin is much duller, the hair not as vibrant and the body is marked with scars of all kinds, a jagged one collects water within its deep crevices. 

His mouth falls open on the ‘O’ of his lost beloved’s name. They stick their fingers in his mouth and through the watery visage he sees their shoulders shake. A weak cackle pierces the sanctity of his shower. 

Before he can say their name, he blinks and the image disappears. He freezes for a split second before he rubs his eyes with his knuckles and pushes his hair away from his forehead. The shower is empty except for him. 

The happiness he felt turns as cold as the water has. He turns it off and with shaky legs steps out of the tub. He almost slips and throws out a hand to clutch the sink. He lets out a shaky breath and gropes for the folded towels. 

His fingers tremble so bad the towel around his waist keeps slipping off his hips so he has to just hold it around him as he rushes to his room. He slams the door behind him, thinks for a moment and locks it too. 

He sits on his bed and stares at the wall opposite him. A poster for Alice in Chains looks back at him. He lays down and hits his head off the wall. 

He hisses, “fuck me.”

His hand clenches into a fist and and before he knows what he’s doing he punches the wall. Pain goes up his hand and he just grunts, taking it. 

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he growls, pressing his tender knuckles down onto his thigh. 

He covers his face with his hands and sits in contemplation. He doesn’t want to think what this could mean. He doesn’t want things to change. He doesn’t know if he will survive the path he’s going down but he knows who he wants to wait for him at the end. And it’s not them, no matter how much they try to stick their hooks in him. 

He has to be strong, he has to hold on. It won’t be long now. He waited two years for this. He can hold on. He can do it. 

He’ll hold on. Please, please, please.