My Love, My Drug, My Release

Late January, 1969

Another chapter right away because the other one was super short, and also, I'm sort of on a roll with this story and just wanted to update again. Hope you all enjoy, I'm in the process of writing the next section, so that will probably be up tomorrow! Also, this is just how I imagine Brandon (sort of), but feel free to picture him however you want, I just didn't know what else to use for this chapter.

"When are we leaving again?" I asked Brandon while we sat on his windowsill, smoking.

"It seems like April will be the best opportunity," he said off-handedly. "Why?"

I sighed, rubbing my freezing legs, wishing my socks came up higher. "My life's going to shit. Jack's an asshole, Paul's a prick, and Linda doesn't seem to give a shit about any of it. I don't know how much longer I can take this."

Brandon reached out and touched my face, stroking my cheek. "You're strong, baby, that's what I love about you; you'll make it till spring."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Are you nervous about leaving your mum?"

Scoffing, he stubbed out his cigarette in the window box of dead petunia's and crawled back into his flat. "She doesn't get me, she never has. Ever since Dad bailed, she's had to pretend to love me. I doubt she'll even notice when I stop returning her calls." His mouth was tight, pulled down at the corners, brown eyes dark and cloudy. 

As much as I wanted to relate to him about our estranged fathers, I couldn't because I knew my dad would be with me if he could, if Linda would let him. I almost brought up his Sydney home (which is where he was living at the moment) as a place we could run away to, but Brandon probably would've bitten off my head at the suggestion. Fathers were not a safe subject.

"What's the first thing you want to do when we get to Bordeaux?" I asked, hoping to lift Brandon's spirits.

It worked. He smiled, holding my jaw and rubbing his thumb in circles on my cheek. "First, I'm going to make love to you on every flat surface in that house, and a few of the bumpy ones," he said, making me giggle like the schoolgirl I was. "Then, find someone ordained, fill out the necessary paperwork, and marry you."

My mouth went dry straight away, before my brain could even fully process what the fuck he'd just said. "M-marry me?" I stammered, trying not to look like I'd just seen a ghost. "I'm thirteen."

"You could pass for sixteen though, at least."

Could I? I was tall, I guess, but I barely had any tits or ass or hips, my face still young looking, limbs skinny and gangly. God, why didn't I grow out my bangs when I had the chance? "I guess I just don't see why it's necessary; we'll be living together, sleeping in the same bed, what does it matter whether or not we're married?"

"It matters to me," he said, forehead scrunched up at what was clearly an unwanted reaction. "Don't you want to be my wife?"

"Yes of course," I said as convincingly as I could, putting my arms around his neck. "I'm just surprised. You're so anti-establishment, this isn't something I thought you'd go for."

He slid his hands around my waist, pulling me to him. "This isn't about the establishment or the government or any of that bullshit. It's about me and you. You're mine, and I don't want to ever be without you."

I kissed him, tears running down my cheeks, because this was what love meant to him.