Synchonicity [siNGkrəˈnisədē], noun.
The simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection.
Your eyes squint against the early morning sun that filters freely into your room thanks to the broken strips of metal that do a poor job of covering your window. You pulled them too hard when they were stuck and now they've collapsed in on themselves, sticking uselessly at unmatched angles that do nothing to hinder the daylight that creeps in every morning.
Useless pieces of shit.
Your throat is painfully dry and the small amount of saliva that drips down your throat is like licking chapped lips. You blink yourself into semi-coherence.
It smells almost sweet. This putrid, musky smell that permeates your entire expanse of breathing room. You've smelled it before, once when one of your friends had a boa constrictor that he always fed live rats. One of them had crawled away somewhere before you could catch it and you only found it by the time that smell had wormed its way through his basement. It was already damp down there to begin with and the distinct scent of rotting rat carcass had quickly worked its way into your throat, settling under your tongue and between your teeth, seeping into your stomach with every fill of your lungs.
You sniff the air audibly and you scrunch up your nose. Turning on your side you see him in the midst of slipping on his jeans, still bare from the waist up and you can't help but follow the thin golden lines that streak across his skin. From this angle you can see the little bump on the bridge of his nose, an line of golden light reaching from across his mouth all the way to his left eye. The sun is rising steadily and he looks the very picture of divine.
He straightens up, turning towards you as he catches you looking. Those little dark irises hold so many questions for you. "You stare at me a lot, ya know that?"
You wonder how he's gotten such an attitude. You frown slightly and he smiles because he thinks that he's got some kind of hold over you. He looks tired again, maybe a little worse than last night.
It's times like last night that you feel especially sick. Might as well go and get a lover from the autopsy room. Nights where you run your hands over his ribs and the flesh is so easily displaced by the pressure that you wonder if it really is putrefying under the surface. Nights when he's so cold you almost don't want to.
Sitting up, the sheets slide off your chest to pool at your waist. He's looking at you but not at your face. "You want something to eat?" It's an empty, useless offer and you know it. It's your way of teasing him and he hates it. He hates having to acknowledge the things he does, and you're mean enough to keep holding it over him.
"Yeah Johnny, that's real cute." His contempt is etched clearly on his face with that straight mouth and those hard eyes.
The window isn't open anymore and the air is stale.
He looks delicate facing away from you like that, and even smaller in your bed and swallowed by all the cream-colored sheets. Egyptian cotton, thousand-count and probably cost much more than he could ever afford for himself. You'd suspect that's maybe why he sleeps here so often, if not for the other arrangements you two have in place. It's early enough that it's still dark with no sunlight just yet, and the only thing you can see clearly is the outline of him in the moonlight.
Still on his side, he shifts around in his sleep and the sheets slip from his skin in a downward tug, exposing his shoulder halfway down to his back. Your breath catches in your throat and you eye that little spot on his neck where you bit him hard enough for your teeth to nearly meet through the skin.
You want to touch him, to run your palm below the sheet until you find what you're looking for and can hear him make that small, startled sound that sends all the blood from your head to sit and rot in the pit of your stomach. You know that he'll still encourage you. You know he'll still moan your name with that desperate tone, that he still wants everything you do for him even during those nights when he can't show it and the only warmth you feel is what you've had to prepare with your own mouth.
You refrain from going right for the obvious, and trail your fingers down his shoulder exposing more skin and you pull the sheet down to his lower back. He's so soft and you wonder how much the chill on his skin is due to the open window in your room. The air is steadily leaking in, leaving everything untouched by you to become as cold as the air outside.
The window is always open for him at night, to eventually slip in underneath the gap and into your bed while he's cold from being outside too long. You swear he does it on purpose, as if any excuse to obtain your body heat would absolve him of any responsibility of what happens when you do finally put your hands on him.
So by the time your palm is flat to the curve of his hip and reaching inward, he still swats your hand away before you can get the good part. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, turning around and facing your smiling face as he glares at your hands.
"Not like you." He's far worse than you could ever be and he knows it; but who cares if you're 'bad', if you're a bad person in his eyes. Doesn't stop him from coming here and you both know it. He'll keep on slipping into your sheets as long as you let him.
"Ya know if you wanna touch me, you ought to wake me up first. You into some weird shit I should know about?"
"And what would you call last night?"
He gets serious. "At least have the decency to wake me."
"If you don't like it, you can leave. Nobody's asking you to be here every night."
Despite the near pitch darkness in the room, you can still see him scowl at you. "You always this rude to people you sleep with? It's no wonder it's never the same one twice."
You don't say anything to that though, because then you'd run the risk of knowing that he's the only person you bother to share a bed with despite your reputation. It's either that or lie to him and make him think he's as insignificant as every other person that he thinks bothers to walk through your door.
But you know he wouldn't believe that anyway, he's too proud to think of himself as disposable to anyone no matter how many times you've thrown him out of here once you were sick of him. He's got even more pride than people think you do, and you don't doubt that even if you tell him to beat it outta here because you're expecting another, that he'd still think you favor him over wherever else you had on the back burner. Instead, you turn away from him and shove your arm under your pillow, staring at the wall until you can't feel the dip in the mattress anymore, and he scoots to the edge to the bed, his own little way of saying he's mad at you.
He still stays though, still sleeps there in your bed with you even after he says that he hates how indifferent you are, and you think that must eat at him sometimes.
"You smell better now, you know." It's an invitation to come closer, and he knows your words well enough by now to recognize it.
Your ear lays flat against your pillow and you can hear your own subdued heartbeat like footsteps on carpeted floors.
You feel his weight behind you now, a small kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, warmth in his touch and in his words.
"Don't ruin this, Johnny."
You smile, your smugness invisible to him. You know he's too caught up to ever leave, and you're the type of person that lets him stay anyway. He's capable of so much harm but never to you, and deep down you know he's not the one who should be seeking salvation from whoever would listen.
While he's with you, he can keep thinking that you keep the window open every night for his sake. You never invite anyone else up here, but he doesn't need to know that. The floorboards recognize his feet and won't creak under his weight. The soft padding of your mattress welcomes his shape.
You'll let him put his arm around your waist and sleep in your bed until morning. You'll let him kiss you and when you pin him to the wall he'll wrap his legs around you like he's trying to keep you here, and you'll let him think that he has to work for your kisses and your hugs.
You let him sleep in this bed because he makes you feel better about the things you've done. He's everything you hate in a person only because he hasn't given up on you yet. He's too pure for what he does.
But you're not about to take up that burden, are you?