Ethan
Ethan
I watch Blue from the corner of my eye as we get ready for bed. The absolute last thing I want is for him to catch me ogling him like a lust-crazed teenager. That’s not even close to what I’m doing, but I’m finding it hard not to stare, and it would be hard to explain staring at someone who’s half-naked in any other way. The tattoos that nearly cover his arms have drawn my interest from the moment we met. They’re black. Only black, and they seem to be a random compilation of everything he loves crushed together anywhere he could find free skin in a completely haphazard way that somehow works. There is a small stack of books, some paw prints walking up his forearm, several geometric designs, a compass, and a large, elaborate vine that crawls up and disappears under his T-shirts.
He showered first when we got back to the room, and when he came out in only a pair of sleep shorts, his blue hair damp and darker than normal, his skin flushed from the heat, I finally got to confirm my suspicion that they don’t end on his arms. The vine winds its way down one side of his chest, and something that looks like abstract paint strokes covers the opposite side of his rib cage, wrapping around his body to meet an elaborate depiction of stormy ocean waves breaking against a forest shoreline that stretches across his back.
I want to study them. I want to trace them with my fingertips and listen to the warm growl of his voice as he tells me about each of them - what they mean to him, when he got them, where he got them. I want to know everything. Some part of me has always envied people who cover their bodies with tattoos. So much of who we are is hidden from the world. Hidden even to those closest to us. But a few people are brave enough to take small moments and intimacies and items of such importance that they have become an integral part of their identities and ink them across their skin without embarrassment for the world to see. Even when they say things like “It doesn’t really have any deep meaning” or “I just thought it was beautiful,” there is more to it. Something drove them to that design, to that artist, to that moment in their lives. Even the ones they make light of or call insignificant hold meaning, and they share that with the universe proudly. I don’t think I’d ever have the courage to put my heart on display like that.
Blue is in bed when I step back into the room after showering and brushing my teeth. We’ve left the heavy balcony door curtains open, and while neither of us qualifies as morning people by any stretch of the imagination, the city lights reflecting against the water and the glittering stars in the black velvet sky visible through the glass doors are too striking to cover up. We’ll just have to see who loses the game of morning chicken and ends up stumbling sleepily to close the drapes after the sun rises.
Blue is facing my side of the bed. I love that about him. In this situation, almost every other person on earth would curl up on their own side, facing away as a signal that their intentions are innocent. Even though I’ve never noticed Blue give any indication that he’s romantically interested in me, he doesn’t feel the need to adhere to such absurd social conventions. He’s comfortable smiling kindly at me as I slip in facing him to mirror his position, lying on my side with one arm curled up under my pillow.
It should be awkward, lying here in bed together. I’m always awkward. I’m even more awkward when any form of intimacy is involved, and even though this isn’t sexual, for me, it’s intimate. Very intimate. I’ve only shared a bed with a handful of people as an adult, and every single one of those times has come after miserable and failed attempts to enjoy sex. Every time I’ve shared a bed, I’ve lain in the dark, trying not to cry or scream as I’ve waited for the other person to fall asleep so that I could sneak out. There is no expectation here with Blue, no pressure to do anything I don’t want to or be anyone I’m not, and I’m…content lying here with him. More than content, I’m enjoying it enough that I wonder what it would be like to shift just a bit closer. I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to fall asleep only to wake up tomorrow and find that the sense of calm and wonder that’s settled ov er me is the one-time-only combination of a long morning drive, too much beer, a magical evening, and exactly the right blend of conversation, friendship, wooden boats, and pizza that can never be recreated. I worry that in the morning, all the tiny sparks of something tingling and bright that have swirled through my chest and settled deep in my soul as Blue and I spent the day together will be gone, and I’ll be back to my normal, lonely self.
I battle with myself as we lie with our heads on adjacent pillows and sleepily half smile at one another as we start to drift off, and after a couple of minutes that, in the best of ways, feel like hours, I force myself to let go of my anxiety and fear and follow my impulses. For the second time today, I reach out and touch him. My fingers reach up and brush a stray lock of cerulean hair from his temple and tuck it behind his ear.
“Is this why people call you Blue?”
I don’t let my fingers linger, quickly snatching them back to rest on the pillow in front of my face, but adrenaline surges through me anyway. His hair is cool and silken and still just the slightest bit damp, and I want to touch it again. I want to shift closer and breathe in the scent of apple that always seems to cling to it. The tip of his tongue flicks out over his lip ring, drawing my attention to the shining silver, and I want to touch that too. I want to know if the steel is cool or if it’s constantly warm from contact with his lips. I want to drag my fingertip along his lips and find out if they’re soft. They look soft. I’ve never wanted to touch someone’s lips before. Not really. Not since Jordyn. It’s not the first time I’ve realized that there are things I might want with Blue that I haven’t wanted since Jordyn, but the tiny sparks have only been momentary blips, so fleeting that I’m not sure they’ve even been real, and I’m afraid to examine that too closely. I don’t want to break the spell my body seems to be under. I don’t want to lose this moment.
“Nope.” We’re close enough that his quiet chuckle rumbles through my chest. “When I was about eight, I went through a phase where I only wanted to eat blue foods.”
Laughter bubbles out of me before I can stop it. “What?”
“I know. I have no idea why. Kids are weird as fuck. I wanted blue suckers and popsicles and blueberries with every meal. My parents indulged me in order to convince me to eat, and they’d do things like blend a couple of blueberries into my mashed potatoes and shit. It only lasted a couple of months, but during that time, my lips and tongue were permanently tinted. Kids at school made fun of me for the first week or so, but then somehow, it just sort of became a term of endearment my friends used. My family heard them, and then they started using it too. For the most part, I’ve been Blue ever since.”
His grin is gentle, and his expression is so soft and content that I want to remember it always. I don’t ever want to forget what it’s like to lie here with him like this.
“So the hair is just a fun coincidence?” It takes all of my willpower not to reach out and caress it again as I ask.
His grin widens. “I went through a stage as a teenager where I dyed it all sorts of colors. Once I got to blue, it just sort of felt right, and I haven’t felt like changing it since.”
I want to ask him to tell me more stories about his childhood, about his hair, about his art, about anything at all. I don’t want this night to end, but his eyes are staying closed just a bit longer with each blink, and I know only moments are left before he drifts off completely. I want to lie here with him forever, but I know this one spectacular night is probably the only chance I’ll get to feel this way. More than likely, whatever magic has been woven around us by old Victorian bedrooms and fireworks and tie-dyed blankets in the cold will have faded by morning, and I’ll be back to my usual self. I’ll be someone who doesn’t feel drawn to touch silken blue hair or wonder what a lip ring would feel like against my lips. I’ll be a person who’s so different and broken and alone in the universe that they could cry. I want to hold onto this for as long as I can. I never want to let go of this feeling. I never want to let go of him.
Blue’s eyes fly open as I slide my hand a few inches toward him, letting it drift off my pillow to rest on the mattress between us. He worries his lip ring with his teeth again, and his fingers twitch a time or two before his hand moves to settle gently over mine.
I can barely see his eyes in the pale moonlight that’s streaming in through the doors at the foot of the bed. In the dark, they’re black, not their normal pale ocean grey as he searches my face. His eyelids flutter, and one corner of his cheek tics up in a hesitant smile. When I return it, his fingers curl incrementally tighter around mine before his eyes shut and he sighs quietly.