I moved back in with my parents - I couldn't get another flatmate, and I couldn't accept Rich's parents offers of continuing paying. I think it was partially a psychological thing - I've lived with Rich since we were 17, and the thought of someone else coming into OUR place was just wrong. I don't mind so much - my parents are sound. They respect my privacy and independence. I don't feel like it's a step back, really - a lot of my friends live at home, that's the recession effect, I suppose. It will just have to do until I get a proper job (which I know could take a year or so these days).
I'm not sure what my parents think of Rich and I right now - they've always just minded their own business, honestly. Since I was 16 and brought a boy home and locked the door... they just turned a blind eye and made him breakfast. My own mother is slightly homophobic - well, not homophobic, just uncomfortable. She loves me, she does truly, and she wants me to be happy. She tolerates, that's about it. But, as far as I see it, if I was straight, I'd hardly tell my mother every detail of my sex life, so everything is a need to know basis.
Rich is so much better. I'm slowly relaxing and learning there's no need to walk on eggshells and over-analyse his every word anymore. I was so terrified of being with him, letting myself get close again - he'd always ended up treating me like a disposible slut, but I know that it was about his own head, not me. I've lost a few friends over it. They don't know how I can forgive him, but I don't know how I could not. It wasn't him, it was this terrible disorder.
I was scared of hurting him - I could see that he was becoming closer to his old self, but I'd turn away from kisses, letting them land on my cheek instead - I didn't want to be the one to drag him back down. He seemed at his most frustrated and angry when he was with me. Or, he had done. And then, I suppose I slowly started to realise that constantly rejecting him was hurting him even more - he felt I was treating him like a child, or a mental patient, as someone incapable of making decision for themselves, as someone I had to protect. Can you blame me? Sometimes all I can think about is blood everywhere, callous laughter, and dead eyes.
Everything is soft, loving and careful. I look at him afterwards, curled into an almost feotal position - his dark lashes fluttering, strands of black hair falling across his porcelain skin, red lips slightly parted - he looks so peaceful, almost angelic. I look closer - dark circles under his eyes, a little stubble, nicotine stained fingers, violent gashes in his perfect skin which will probably never disappear completely... and I remember how far we've still got to go. One day at a time.
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