#my mouth; literally shit bacteria and rotten food

[swagging-back-to]

ynkow when you have a popcorn kernel stuck in your wisdom teeth for like two weeks and then you finally get it out and it smells like literal shit?

[gwaciechang]

Love Run (4/10?)

“Welcome to my table, bring your hunger”

Yes, I know that line’s from The Horror and the Wild. Deal with it.

Once again, trigger warnings for Bobby Hayes’ life and everything involved in it. This chapter also involves a character with OCD whose rituals lead to an argument with the POV character, the discovery that an addict is keeping drugs in a recovering addict’s living space (a brief line that will be discussed later), and a heavy discussion of the POV character’s past drug abuse and recovery. Read at your own risk below the cut.

“Home sweet home,” you breathe a sigh of relief. Behind you, Bobby is tense and unhappy. That doesn’t change when he steps inside. You wince when you notice the mess. God, why didn’t you clean up before?

Well, missing the bus, making a friend, and killing a hitman might have had something to do with it. You shake yourself out of the memory before it can overwhelm you. You're literally too tired to have a panic attack, how sad is that?

You start scrubbing the dishes you left from breakfast that last morning into the sink. The handle falls off the mug, and you curse. That had been your favorite, too, because it’s the only one your ex didn’t give you when you two moved into this place. The only glue you have in the house is a children’s gluestick that couldn’t hold two pieces of paper together, assuming you could even find it. You resign yourself to a trip to the store. Bobby would probably insist on his own set of dishes anyway, and you do’'t blame him, you're the one who let this place become a sty, after all.

“D-do you mind if I help?” Bobby asks shyly.

“No, of course not. Just, um, just let me know where you put things later, and, uh, try to keep similar things in the same place. That’s dish soap in the handsoap dispenser next to the faucet, by the way. I have a gallon jug of dish soap under the sink next to the trashcan that I refill it with, it’s just easier.” When you realize you’re babbling, you shut your mouth with a click.

“That's smart,” Bobby’s smile is pained. “That’s normal person smart.”

“Normal?” you hold up your hands, which are still covered by his gloves.

Oddly enough, this actually makes him smile, and he gets to washing the dishes with his bare hands, even though it means having to touch four-day-old egg, or whatever that yellow crusty thing is. You go to your bedroom and try to organize your clothes, or at least get them off the floor. And that’s when you realize.

“Shit!”

“What is it?”

You poke your head out to say, “I don’t have a couch, and there’s only one bed.”

His face is grim and he fidgets when he says, “If you don’t mind, I could take a spare blanket and sleep on the floor.”

”I can’t let you sleep on the floor, Bobby, shit.” You take out your thickest blanket anyway, and go to the gaming room your ex set up to dump on the reclining chair. “I’ve fallen asleep here before,” you lie, you’d never used this room before. Bobby’s not paying attention, he’s too busy staring at your ex’s computer.

Right, he’s a fucking computer expert, and your ex, for all his uselessness, was very much into getting the latest technology for League of Warcraft or whatever it was he played.

“Yes, it is most likely whatever model of computer you’re thinking of. I don’t know exactly, since I’ve never used it,” you roll eyes and busy yourself with trying to figure out how to get the reclining chair to actually recline.

“I thought you said you’ve fallen asleep here before.”

Ah shit, you need to be more careful. “Um, yeah,” you hide your face carefully. “When my ex would fall asleep here, I’d usually come join him.” That actually isn’t a lie. “I hate sleeping by myself in that big bed.”

Bobby makes a sound, and for a second your heart beats fast with the hope he’s going to offer to sleep in the bed with you. But then he opens his mouth. “Have you considered getting a large stuffed animal?”

The idea is appealing. You hadn’t held a stuffed animal even close to your size since you were maybe five, but you’d be damned if you let Bobby knew that.

“I will throw this chair at you,” you threaten.

He honest-to-god smirks. “You can’t even lift it.”

You do your best and succeed at tipping the chair over right into the window. The headrest smashes into the blinds and starts to go through the glass as well, but Bobby catches it at the last second and very carefully tips it back.

“Well, fuck,” you say, examining the crack in the glass.

“I don’t usually sleep at night,” Bobby says suddenly. His fingers are tapping that nervous pattern against his elbows again. “We could take turns sleeping in the bed?”

“Actually, that might be a good idea,” you remember what Harry said. “One of us should be on alert, just in case somebody tries to break down my door, too.”

Bobby tenses at the reminder, and his eyes flick toward the door like somebody’s about to jump out right now. “I will,” he promises, rubbing the sores on his arms. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I can stay awake for a long time.”

“Well, so can I,” you think ruefully of being so high on meth you wouldn’t even realize a week passed by until the high ran out and you crashed, starving, hallucinating, for days.

“Don’t take anything, please. Don’t take anything that’ll keep you awake, and I promise I won’t take anything,” Bobby’s eyes are fierce.

“I won’t,” you promise. “I’d rather die. I’m not joking, I’d rather die.”

He gets closer to you, one inch at a time. “Well, don’t do that either,” he lays a reluctant hand on your shoulder.

“I think I’ve done a pretty good job of not doing that,” you try to force some levity into the situation. “Now come on, you barely have any clothes, and my groceries have probably gone bad.”

It turns out to be a mistake, because you forgot it was Friday and not Monday, and the shop is crowded.

“I don’t need anything,” Bobby says sullenly. He flinches every time someone brushes past him.

“Is it because the police took your money? That’s fine. I can afford it for a couple days,” you walk in front of him so you’ll deal with the crowd and he can avoid people in your wake. You also fail at trying not to think about work. You’re missing almost a week’s worth of income, and you don’t even know if Bobby has a job.

“No, I brought the box. I don’t like it here. It’s too loud.”

“Okay, let’s go home, and then you can make a list for me of things you need, and I’ll get it,” you start to turn him to the exit.

“No,” he takes your hand. “I’m not leaving you alone.” Does he realize he’s humming to his usual six beats?

That gives you an idea. “Here,” you take his gloves off and hold them under his face so he can see them.

“They’re yours,” he still doesn’t meet your eyes. “They keep you from scratching.”

“I’m not scratching, they worked. Now put them on.”

He does, and with his hands covered, he doesn’t stop tapping, but nor is he flinching when people pass by him. You’re not arrogant enough to believe it’s because you’re holding his hand now.

He closes all the blinds once you get home, then opens them to close them again.

You leave him to it, opening up the refrigerator door to toss the rotten carrots and a bag of things that could be kiwis or apples out. The cherries are a little soft, but they look edible, and so do the wrinkly oranges, so you put the green bananas in between them to help them ripen faster.

“I’ll do it,” Bobby yanks the groceries out of your hands and starts rearranging your food.

“Can you leave the fruit where it is? I want the bananas to ripen faster.”

“You could’ve just bought ripe bananas,” he says.

“Yes, but I don’t eat them that fast,” you try to keep your temper in check.

He takes the bag of cherries. “These are old.”

“They’re still good,” you argue, trying to keep him from throwing them out.

“They’re old,” he insists.

“You’re not the one who’s eating them!” your voice is getting higher now.

“I don’t want them in the refrigerator. They get old and they become breeding grounds for bacteria.”

“It’s my refrigerator!”

He throws the cherries at you before storming out of the room, and you just barely catch them. He’s tapping his fingers so hard against the wall that you��re afraid he'll break them.

“Bobby-”

“SHUT UP! STOP TALKING!” he screams. His eyes are clenched shut and he’s doubled over. You wonder if his injuries are still bothering him, and all your anger drains out.

You drop the cherries behind the bananas so they’re hidden from view. “I’ll leave the groceries to put away how you want,” you say as you walk off to your room. You close the door quietly to avoid disturbing his rituals, turn around, and find his box at the top of his dresser.

You know this is invasive, but you need to know. You of all people know how tentative the hold on sobriety is, and if someone has hard drugs that you know is triggering for you, you have to protect yourself. Still, knowing that doesn’t make you feel any less awful to start singing Bonnie Tyler again to hide the sounds of you opening the box.

Well, that’s a lot of cash and not a lot of heroin, maybe. You can’t smell it like this, but you know what it looks like.

You leave everything where it is and close the box in favor of something you can control: sorting the laundry. That’s how Bobby finds you, and he lets out a little sigh of relief when he sees his box hasn’t been disturbed.

“There was so much noise,” he says harshly, and then he winces.

“I understand,” you try to reassure him. “Your life just got turned upside down, you lost your apartment, you’re in a whole new living situation with another person, your life is in danger by people you don’t know, and shopping in big crowds can be stressful. You’re trying to get your control back.”

“So are you,” Bobby insists. “You’ve got a new roommate, that roommate’s reminding you of the worst time of your life, and you’ve still got nightmares of that man you killed for me. I should let you have your comfort food, it’s not my comfort food.”

“Which is why I put the cherries somewhere harder to see,” you say. “And if there’s anything else I can do, let me know, alright? We can compromise as long as we talk to each other.” You take tentative steps toward him. “Thank you for being honest with me. Thank you for not hiding or getting high to avoid having this conversation.”

“You shouldn’t be proud. I'm just doing something you’ve been doing for years.”

“Well, too bad, because it's my feelings and I get to feel whatever I want,” you say, standing up. “Now, I’m going to make myself some food. Coming?”

He does, like you hoped. Honestly, that boy needs some meat on his bones.

“What do you like?” you ask, getting your cooking utensils out and leaving the doors open so he can rearrange them the way he likes. He’s doing you a favor, really, you don’t have any organizational system for most of your kitchen.

“I want to know how to make your favorite.”

You can’t help yourself from clutching your chest. “Lu mian it is,” you say, taking out the yellow bean sprouts from the fridge so you could snap the roots off. “Could you take the shredded beef out of the freezer and put it in the microwave to thaw?”

He obeys immediately, the sweetheart.

“Great. Now get me the big metal bowl and a plate from the dishwasher. The bowl’s on the top shelf, the plates are on the bottom, and you can organize it however you like after that.”

“Okay, you see that big three-layered pot in the corner? Take the top two pots off, fill the bottom pot about halfway with water, and then put it on any of the stoves and turn the heat to medium.”

The water turns on, then off, and the pot clinks against the stovepot. Only once.

“What else?”

“Get a porcelain bowl from the dishwasher, top shelf. And then you see the sauces next to the stove? One of them says ‘light soy sauce.’ Pour about a tablespoon of it into a bowl. When you're done with that, there's garlic in the fridge in the same place you keep your butter in your refrigerator. Dice five or six. The cutting board is next to the sink. Then mix the garlic in with the sauce, and when the beef’s thawed, pour it into the bowl and mix it again.”

The microwave dings, and he pours the beef into the bowl. “Like this?” he asks.

“Exactly, perfect.”

Is that a blush?

“Alright, what’s next?” he asks when he finishes.

“Next? Next you listen to me thank you for following my directions perfectly.”

Bobby blushes. He’s so beautiful.

“Is the water boiling yet?” you ask as you wash the sprouts.

“Um, it’s getting close, it’s bubbling.”

“Okay, take two chunks of noodles out of the freezer and put them on the plate. 30 seconds in the microwave should thaw them out enough for you to separate them.” The microwave dings right as you pour the water out of the sprouts. You leave the sprouts next to the sink, separate the top two pots, and walk up to Bobby as he takes out the noodles. “Okay, do exactly as I do,” you say, taking one chunk of noodle from him to unravel into one of the pots. He, of course, follows your instructions perfectly and his pot is much neater than yours, the show-off.

“The water’s boiling," he says, looking at the stove.

“Perfect,” you put your pot over his and put them over the pot already on the stove. Then you grab a pot and pour about two tablespoons of vegetable oil into it, and crank it up to high. “Okay, pour the beef and garlic in here,” you point.

He’s already brushed the mixture into the pot by the time you realize you didn’t give him the spatula, so rinse it out quickly before stirring the mixture with it. Steam hisses, and you roll up your sleeves.

That was a mistake.

You cover the scars as soon as you can, but Bobby is already horrified.

“It’s not that bad,” you focus on making sure the garlic doesn’t stick to the pot. “They were uglier before they healed,” you try to joke.

Bobby rolls up his sleeves, too, so you can see his bruised injection sites. He makes eye contact the whole time, daring you to call yourself ugly again. You nod in acquiescence, and he takes over stirring for you. “How long do I do this for?” he asks.

“Until the meat turns brown,” you say, grabbing the bowl of sprouts. “Move over, I'm going pour this in.”

“Do I mix it in?” he asks. You’re so close to him that you can feel his warmth.

“Yes,” you squeak with a dry mouth. You don’t want to move. “A little more than that,” you say, peering at the pot. “A little more,” and technically this is good enough, but you don’t want to move. “A little more.”

The dry hiss of the noddle pot tells you that it needs more water, snapping you out of your stupor.

“Take the top two pots off,” you say, filling the metal bowl with water to pour into the bottom pot. Then you take the top pot off and put it on the bottom pot. “Now put yours on top of mine.” Man, you would love to say that in a different context.

When the noodles are done, you mix them into the meat and sprouts, and then you both sit down to enjoy your meal. Neither of you have rolled down your sleeves.

“I can’t remember when the noise really started getting to me,” Bobby says suddenly. “I remember the first time I lost my tooth, I kept counting my teeth. I don’t think anybody knew what I was doing yet. And then I had to do more and more. At some point, whenever I went out, I had to count all the trees, and if they weren’t in six, I couldn’t go to where I need unless I counted enough trees to fit six. So I stopped going out, things were just too scary. I broke my fingers one day, to try to keep myself from counting, and the doctor gave me Valium. It made me feel like I was floating, and when it wore off, I had to feel it again. When I’m on heroin, the world isn’t so scary anymore. But the noise always gets through again.”

You reach halfway across the table and lay your open hand down. “When I was thirteen, one of my friends had expired pills they let me take, because I was tired all the time and I didn’t know why. And I still don’t know. I just had to keep taking more and more of it to just stay awake, and then I started mixing other amphetamines. And then when I was fifteen, one of the people I used to buy from said he had something better than expired pills. He gave me crystal meth. He told me he’d inherited this mansion from his uncle, and it was full of the stuff. It was probably just an abandoned building, but it was always full of people using everything he sold.”

Bobby’s eyes are wet, but they’re looking right at yours, and he takes your hand. “How did you stop?”

You chuckle. “Honestly, my sister. My entire family stopped talking to me after they found out I was a tweaker. And one day, when I was too tired to care how much I took, I ended up having a heart attack. I still don’t know how she found me, but she did, and she called an ambulance and kept me alive until it got there. When I woke up, she was next to my hospital bed. She didn’t speak to me, but she locked me in her apartment while fluids poured out of me from both ends, and you have to really love somebody to do that while they’re screaming about how much they hate you.”

Bobby swallows. “Does your family talk to you now?”

“Yeah, eventually. It took a while to get my dad to come around. But having Chloe around to vouch for me really helped,” your eyes are blurring. You rub the tears away roughly, but they’re soon replaced by many more.

Bobby lifts his fingers and wipes them away.

“Thanks,” you say into your noodles.

“I’m sorry you were alone,” he says with way too much feeling.

“Well, once you get past the ‘Holy shit I almost died’ thing, you stop being so scared of things that aren't likely to kill you right this second,” you try to smile. It feels wrong on your face.

Your ex’s chair squeaks when Bobby stands up. You’re not sure what he's doing as he walks around the table, but his face is determined, so you don't say anything as he opens his arms and covers you in a hug.