Grey

Part 1

It was comfortable. 

It was 5 in the morning, and dark and I was more than slightly drunk. The floor was covered in shit: clothes, shoes, empty bowls and cups, liquor bottles and the occasional needle, so walking without shoes was dangerous. The carpet was filthy and threadbare, and the wallpaper didn't look any better. 

The only damn thing in this room worth salvaging was the couch. I found it in some old lady’s trash the one day and dragged it into the house like some winner's trophy. At least it wasn't falling apart like the rest of this heap we lived in. The dark morning shone through the grimy windows, but the sun hadn't come up yet. Everything was turning dark grey; fog was settling in. I could feel the waves of high hitting me from the smack. And I was staring at something otherworldly. 

His long, shiny and slightly oily red hair caught the grey light from the window. His leather pants clung to his thighs like slick ink. His wifebeater tank top was old, faded and smelled like cheap beer. But it all emphasized every slender curve of his body. He'd definitely lost weight since I'd met him, not that he was heavy to begin with, but he still looked beautiful to me. In my alcohol and heroin infused haze, he was absolutely perfect. 

He collapsed onto the couch, sprawling out, a fresh pinprick on his arm. He closed his vibrant eyes and settled back into the upholstery, sailing on the clouds conjured up by shooting heroin. His hair fell over his shoulders gracefully. The color was so warm, like a campfire...I wondered if the rest of him was that warm...

I fell on the couch next to him, trying not to squish him. The ceiling was swirling above me. He moaned in agitation.

“Stop, dude, I'm asleep.” I heard him slur in a soft voice. But I nestled closer to him, shoving him into the back of the couch. It was cramped, but i didn't want to go anywhere else. 

“You're not.” I stumbled. I wasn't the most articulate person in the world when I was drunk. Add in being high and it's a verbal train wreck. “Else you wouldn't be talking.” I heard him sigh. 

“Go to bed. You're high. And drunk.” His deep voice sounded scratchy and tired. I wondered if he was drinking enough water. Then I realized I didn't care about it enough at the moment. 

“So are you.” Damn he was soft. And warm. Really warm. His exposed shoulder was bony, but if I placed my head at the right spot, it was soft enough to be comfortable. He smelled like wine and cigarettes, and they meshed together pretty well. Weird. I nuzzled his neck. It was really warm too, and his hair brushed my cheek. Better than a pillow. Damn, being high made me fucking cuddly. I felt like a damn cat.

“It's late…” I heard him breathe. I'd never seen him so relaxed. The guy was always wound up like a spring, ready to fly at any moment. Now he was like a fat cat stretched out on a rug. 

“We’ve stayed up later…” I whispered in his ear, dodging his earrings and nibbling on it. I heard him inhale sharply. Music to my ears. I dunno what shampoo he used but it smelled good. REALLY good...I buried my nose in his hair. I felt a small hand slide slowly up my arm, with soft fingertips. I'd played guitar for so long that I forgot what it felt like to have normal fingers. I looked over. He had such long fingers...perfect pianist form. He made it look so effortless. I could sit and watch him play for hours, wondering how something so complex and beautiful could seem so simple. Then again, I was always drunk on something. And everything he did was simply fucking beautiful. 

“Tracii…” He sighed slowly, exhaling deeply. I could barely hear him, his voice got so soft. I ran my fingers achingly up and across what felt like his collarbone; not many bones felt so narrow and smooth like that...it felt like it went on for miles….I skated my fingers across it, back and forth. He shifted slightly. “That tickles…”