Raphael /BoyxBoy/

||Eighteen||

Day eight

Raphael had the ingenious idea of ordering pizza at 10pm. Greasy, thick crust, cheese pizza that we devoured seconds after he dropped the box open on his living room couch.

The tomato sauce, or grease, or both, left a slight glistening sheen on his lips. Tinted it a shade between pink and red that made them appear larger in size.

Unable to resist, I leaned in and tasted his lips. Felt him freeze at the unexpected gesture, but continued to swipe my tongue against his lips.

Our eyes met for a moment before Raphael looked away. Shyly, if he was anyone else, but on Raphael it was only meant to keep me away. And I was slowly beginning to find more of that look on his face. Wanting to know how to erase it. Wanted to hold him gently by his jaw and steer his face towards me. Learn more about the lines that creased his brows and the alternating shades of his blue eyes.

"It's been a week," he said, jarring me away from my train of thoughts.

I didn't pretend to feign ignorance. I had thought about it. Of that promise I made to myself a week ago, stupidly indulging Raphael into the equation. Stupidly trying to push all thoughts of it away for later.

For now. For when he brought it up because otherwise I would have been all right with erasing all traces of it from my mind.

So I said, "I know."

He ran his fingers through his hair, the sleeves of his oversized sweater sliding partially down his wrist.

I wrapped my fingers around his arm and pulled it closer, therefore pulling him closer as well.

His arms were bare. Which was normal. Which was good. Which was fine.

But not for Raphael.

I wondered when it had happened. Between waking up to his lips between my legs and his disappearance as the sun reappeared. Or between my tired walk from the apartment to the university.

Or perhaps just seconds before I arrived. Frantically scrubbing all scrapes of his emotions from his skin with cheap soap and a sponge in equal condition.

He tugged his arm back, looking like I had threatened to have it dismantled and thrown away.

I didn't say anything. Suddenly the pizza churned in my stomach, feeling heavy and full. Making me feel uncomfortable in return.

I realized how much I liked the ink on his skin, how I loved the way it looked on him. How I loved imagining what went on in his head while he did it. Where he did it. Sitting on his toilet seat with his knee drawn up to his chin, or on this couch as music played softly from his record player, or with a cigarette between his lips as he leaned against the backdoor of the tea shop.

I imagined it. After I kissed him goodbye the other day, or right before he swung by the antique store. Or maybe it had nothing to do with me. Maybe after a rough day at work. After another attempt at standing up to his fear of sharp needles.

I realized that it was something that came along so naturally with Raphael. It was so natural to notice a new drawing between his thumb and forefinger, on the curve if his wrist bone, on the skin where his pants rode up and revealed a slither of his ankles.

And it was gone now. So blatantly, so casually, so unannounced.

I wasn't sure what I was expecting.

"It's got nothing to do with you."

Meaning it had everything to do with me, and I did this. Stripped him bare of the only thing he could turn to for pure comfort. I took that away.