The Waif and the Stray

"Play something else, something more cheerful," I ask into the crook of his shoulder.

He releases me, a mixed blessing, before stretching out his fingers.

"Been playing a lot today, and now I'm feeling it. Hands are stiff," he explains, with a rueful tone and another quick smile.

I recognise the song from the other day in the station, but this time, he sings it too. The words transform it from slow and pretty to proper romantic.

"Is that Alan Price too?" I ask as he finishes.

"Yep. It's 'Just for You'," he smiles one of his big smiles.

"Oh! I get it now. That's the title? 'Just for You'?"

"Right. I don't play it that much. It's --"

"Romantic," I blurt. "I mean --"

I don't get to finish that thought because his face is suddenly touching mine. So lightly, it's almost not touching at all. Just electricity.

"Do you want this, Lou?" he breathes. "I don't always know."

I tip to him, the short brush of our lips like an awakening. But he tips away.

"Tell me, Lou. Is this what you want?"

The last thing I want to do is talk about it. I bite at my mouth, frustrated. "Yeah," I say, annoyed at how shaky it comes out.

The tension seems to slide out of him as he almost slumps into me, pulling me closer with a hand pressed into the small of my back. His first kiss lands on my cheek, the second on the top corner of my mouth. I pull back.

"What do you want, Jude?"

"You," he sounds surprised I'm even asking. "This. With you." He lands another kiss on my cheek.

I've reached my limits. Because. Talking like this isn't a strength.

Kissing him back might be, though. His kissing is so good I feel it all over. I watch his eyelashes, longer and darker when they're pressed closed, flicker then open wide. His pupils are big and black; so black. Huge, round wells ringed in the clearest blue-green I've ever seen. Honestly, his eyes have been the ruin of me ever since I met him. Holding his gaze now feels like one of the most daring things I've ever done. He's throwing down a challenge, a thrilling dare. Instead of my usual reticence, I want in. So much. He strokes me everywhere. Palm, fingers, tongue. Down my arm. Through the hair hanging down my back. Into my mouth.

I break from him, needing to catch my breath. His hand wraps itself into my hair.

"You look beautiful tonight. This -- your hair -- it's beautiful. You usually tie it all up," as he bunches it up around my neck, studying me with his breath-taking eyes.

I don't know what to say, so I lean in and press my face into his neck. His body feels like it's curling around me. A cloak of warm skin, muscle and blood, of lungs moving in and out, full of life. An experimental lick forces a small, low sound from his throat. So, I do it again. And again. Once more.

He shifts on the seat. My palm pushes at his t-shirt, shifting it up to expose the skin above his shorts. I trace the bumps of his spine. He makes another low sound. I rub at the texture. Small hairs against damp skin. He whispers my name. Pushes fingers under my chin to kiss me. This time I kiss him back. Really kiss him. Better. I touch the roof of his mouth, the inside of his cheeks, and curl my tongue around his. I'm drunk from him. He emits another short, low noise, louder than before, his breath harsh on my face. After another, more frustrated noise, he pulls away from me. Drops his forehead to mine.

"I'm really sorry, Lou, but I've gotta go. I promised a mate I'd help him out tonight with a shop re-fit. I didn't know this would happen," touching a fingertip to my mouth.

I shove my disappointment down to a place I can deal with later, on my own, and try to smile.

"The piano -- honestly dunno what to say except thank you. Ain't never had one to myself before," he gives me a chaste kind of kiss.

"S'ok, Jude. It's better off here than the tip."

He smiles back, stroking my hair as if he's reluctant to let go of me.

"Come on. I'll walk you home. It's on my way, anyway, but we need to get going. I'm already going to be later than I promised."

We stand up, adjusting our clothes and, in my case at least, my hopes.

During the short distance to my house we talk of inconsequential things. The ongoing heatwave and expected drought. The nearly full moon. My little bird doesn't know what to do, whether to flap and beat or to tuck its wings and head into its chest.

When we reach my front door, he pushes me hard up against it and this kiss is more aggressive than all the others, as if to make up for our losses. I lift myself into his hold, relishing the feel of his body pressed into mine, fancying I can feel his rapid heartbeat. It's over too quickly, as he releases me, wipes at his mouth, grins wide and winks at me, before loping off down the street.

+++

Another Saturday, another extra shift. It's been a late one, filling in for one of the warehouse guys who called in sick today. I'm first off the bus, keen to get home.

Home.

Even now, I get a sharp thrill at the idea. A place to live that's in my control. I swipe at my eyes, warding off any unnecessary crying, because there's no time for that now.

My bag twitches, my phone vibrating with a message. I hurry up the street and glance at the screen. It's Jude.

-???

Which is his way of asking where I am. Everyone seems to be congregating at the house tonight. It's nearly ten o'clock and I yawn. Maybe from tiredness. Or, more likely, nerves about seeing Jude again. Since our kisses at the piano last weekend, I've only seen him once, when he came round to borrow some tools from Al on his way to another job. I was all sweaty from work. But he kissed me anyway, fierce and fast at the front door, before leaving. I've been gently sweating over the memory of it ever since.

Music emanates from several of the houses on our street. Windows wide open, bright yellow hatches inviting in the moths. Everyone is basking in this freakishly hot summer. Living it up in their postage-stamp gardens, before God realises his mistake and resumes normal service with a bit of wind and rain.

Ours is one of the houses playing music. I walk all the way through to the garden, to Eliza's magical world, lit up with tangled skeins of fairy lights and candles.

"Hey, look, it's Lou!" Al's voice is as big as he is, and I duck my head, self-conscious about my cheap workwear, about being late to the party. Always the outsider.

"Yay. Lou, you're home. Get yourself a beer," Rick cheers, holding his own bottle aloft.

"Hey. How was work?" Jude's voice is close by. My watchman.

"Yeah, ok. Done. Probably my last overtime shift for a while."

"No bad thing. You should enjoy this summer while it's still here."

I nod. "I'm gonna take a quick shower."

"Take a beer outta the fridge, Lou," Piotr calls, his eyes following me and Jude from his position sprawled on the bench.

Leaning into the open fridge, the cold air is a delight.

"You'll come back down once you've had your shower, will you?" Jude, still close by.

I shut the door, beer in hand. "Yeah, course."

Jude grins, digging at the floor with one foot. Confident and nervy all at once. I'm not sure how aware he is of his nerviness. It makes me light-headed, happy, to see him this way.

"Good. Because all that lot," he tosses his head in the direction of the garden, "are pretty far gone already."

"And you're not?"

"Nope. Been waiting for you."

And, well, that catches me by surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah, no lie." He steps closer, placing a hand on the fridge over my shoulder. More assured now.

Yet, still, I'm not prepared for the energy in his gaze. He fixes me with it as if he's physically holding onto me.

"Well, that's nice of you," I say, sounding as feeble as I deserve.

"Lou?" He moves closer, eyebrows lifting. "Are we doing this?" His eyes flick over my face, back and forth, clarifying what 'this' means.

I nod my head, knocking it against the fridge door, drawing an unexpected laugh out of both of us. "Yes. I think so, don't you?"

We stare at each other, heating up. I follow the path of his flush from his neck to his face, wondering if I'm mirroring it as exactly as I feel I am. The delicious tension wraps around us, binding us tighter.

Al steps into the limits of my view, behind Jude. "Oh, ah -- sorry, I'll, er --" he backs out.

"I'll jump in the shower, then," I mutter, fighting off a smile.

"Mm, don't get too clean," he teases, stepping back to allow me past.

I climb the stairs with a thumping heart, my ribcage jarring with it. All the way through undressing and showering I try, and fail, to still it. Scrubbing at my scalp, I visualise what I've always imagined as the little bird inside me. It's lived there since I can remember, a scruffy little thing, acting as an early warning. My protector. I imagine the flow of water calming it, coating its wings, weighting them down; soothing it. It's resistant, though, in a confused state between nervousness and excitement.

I take a couple of gulps of beer as I dress, a deep breath before descending the stairs, and another at the sight of Jude's back as he leans against the door frame, laughing at something with Mo.

He reaches for me the moment I draw up next to him. I try not to shrink from the eyes of my housemates as they clock the move, Jude's hold of my hip. Mostly, though, I bite at my mouth to contain my pleasure he's not hiding it from the others. That he's prepared to weather their curious looks. That he's willing to be seen with me. I shift closer to him which he rewards with a firmer grip over my skirt. I don't mind the feel of that, either. I watch him raise the beer bottle to his lips and my heart lurches so hard and quick I'm certain he feels it too.

But he continues talking to Mo, his voice vibrating along his arm, running across my back to my hip, into my body. I decode their conversation enough to grasp they're arguing the toss over the fine distinctions between different brands of frozen pizza. And that Mo is, as Jude said, pretty much out of it. Casting my sober, just-out-of-work, eye over my housemates, it's obvious how bent out of shape all of them are, actually. No obvious signs, but the beer's definitely a secondary contributor. Eliza fiddles until she finds the song she's been obsessing over all summer, cranks the volume and pulls Piotr to his feet to dance with her, singing along in a voice nearly as ethereal as the vocalist herself.

"Have you eaten anything?" Jude asks, turning to me, the pizza debate concluded.

"Yeah, took something in to eat at work."

His lips touch the side of my neck. A whisper. Both of us shiver, even though our skin warms with the promise of what's to come, both of us apparently content to wait in this moment. Prolonging it. Watching Eliza's long-limbed dancing through the hazy late evening light. Indigo shading into violet. Is that the correct order? I try to remember, until the slightest shift of Jude's fingers over my hip sets my thoughts onto a different track, as if we're somehow fusing electrical impulses, blood circulation, breath. I feel almost as high as my housemates. Just from his touch.

Wrapping Piotr's arms around her waist, swaying them together, Eliza sings the lyrics, her face upturned to the sky, "'It's all good. You're allowed to be what you could. Punch drunk, dumbstruck, pot luck happy, happy.'"

Music from another house nearby cranks up, together with cheers and whistling, rising into the hot night like steam. Another summer party breaking into their happy. I tip my head to stare up into the sky. It's so warm I fancy the air is thicker than normal. Like layers of gauze.

"You ok?" his face close to my neck again.

I shiver. It's been so difficult for me to imagine I'm noticed, much less wanted by anyone, that Jude's simple enquiry is almost too much to handle. From our first meeting, on the beach, he's always made me think he sees me. Truly sees me. He pulls back a little as I turn to look at him. Certain my eyes must be giving it all away. Giving me away. I imagine I can actually feel my pupils expanding, opening out until all I see is Jude and nothing else. No periphery.

He stares back. Looking, really looking. Unafraid.

Eliza's song fills the air all around us with its earnest, dreamy sound, angsty and uplifting at the same time. What can I allow myself to be?

Jude's mouth softens, lifts on one side, ready to smile. "I'll look after you, Louisa. Trust me," he breathes, unblinking.

I snatch for breath as his smile widens. In this moment, I believe him. Believe that he can see into me and know my fears. Even now, my little bird beats a quick warning. But, truth is, I like having Jude read my mind. I want it.

There. My secret is out.

The song finishes. Then begins all over again. Jude rolls his eyes.

"C'mon, I can't take much more Wolf Alice. Elli's gonna play this song over and over for the rest of the night, and you know it."

We share a laugh as we turn into the kitchen, part of me hoping no-one notices our departure, part of me denying it should matter if they do. Wondering if I'm going to end up regretting this.

"Stop worrying, Lou. Don't you know us gypsies mate for life?"

That's Jude's more familiar, cocky voice and, yes, when I turn to look at him, he's got the full shit-eating grin all over his face. He follows me up the darkened stairs, three flights, his body close, snatching quick kisses where he can; the back of my arms, my hands, my shoulder. Even the back of a calf, me almost catching his face with my foot. By the time we reach the attic, I'm proper giggly. High. Everything larger, clearer, more enticing. Breathless with nerves.

Once inside, he pushes my door closed and reaches for me, pulling me surely towards him. Reeling me in. Grinning, but, maybe, also something else in his eyes.

"C'mere, Lou, get up here," he coaches me, lining our bodies up, surrounding me with his long arms and legs. Bending his face closer to mine. "You nervous? I am," he offers, proving he's got apparently unlimited capacity to surprise me. "Excited, too, see?"

His hips move into me, just briefly. Just long enough to prove he's not fibbing.

"I've done this before, you know," defensive words that tumble out of me.

"Good to know," still grinning, moving me closer. "Me too," he winks, making me laugh. "But we're gonna be good together, me and you. You'll see. Thought that since day one, I have."

"Jude," I chide. He's pushing a hand between us, into his front pocket. Retrieving something. Holds them up for me to see -- condoms -- raising an eyebrow.

"Brought these, in case this happened," his voice diffident-sounding, his eyes more searching. "If that's ok?"

I nod. He bends down to kiss my cheek again. It's such an affectionate thing to do. It softens me even more.

"Is it ok, Lou? I know you don't want to talk a lot, but you gotta say if this is ok or not."

"It's ok," I push my lips against his neck, into his prickly stubble, trying to hide my face but knowing he needs to hear my words.

Smelling good, as usual. He swallows as I kiss him, and I trace the movement downward with my mouth, tugging at the neck of his t-shirt, flicking my tongue along his collarbone. He grunts, surprised. Good. It's about time I had that effect on him for a change. He shuffles, widening his stance so he has to bend down less to reach me. I wonder if it makes his back ache, to stand so. Until he grabs me more firmly and tips backwards, against the door, pulling me with him, propping me up against him. Like one of the trust exercises they made us do, years ago, at a weekend camp for kids like me in the care system. Falling backwards, trusting we would be caught. Held safely. I slide my feet further in-between his, closing the gap. Enjoying the feel of him against me, more excited than before, if I trust my senses.

"Do that again," his voice coaxes me, lifting his chin, "it was nice."

I do as he asks, cosying into his neck, dragging a fingertip over his Adam's apple down to his neckline, pulling it back like before. He shivers. I repeat it, calibrating his reaction, searching for the places that make him shiver the hardest. His arms hug me tighter, one hand shoving the condoms into my back pocket before pressing firmly into the small of my back. Settling us in, here, propped against the door.

It's along the collarbone. And the dip at the centre of them. The places that make him shiver. I delight in the discovery. In the little noises he's making from the back of his throat. In the sense of power it gives me. Leaning away from him to lift his t-shirt, I teeter, not quite firm on my own feet. He steadies me. We share a grin. I raise the hem of his shirt again. He lifts his eyebrows until I nod, pulling at the cotton more firmly until he raises his arms.

He flinches when I touch his bare skin before he's got the shirt clear. Even in the grey barely-there light of my room, I can tell he's tanned more lightly here on his chest than on his arms. From when he's labouring or otherwise working outdoors. Taking jobs where it doesn't get noticed if he can read or not. He hums -- in surprise or desire -- when I pass a thumb over one of his nipples. An intake of breath when I tweak a dark hair.

"Come back here," he murmurs, pulling me close again, scrubbing his stubble over my shoulder, into my neck and back again.

Soothing my skin with his lips. Sweeping my hair out of his path. Wrapping it around his fist, like before when we were at his piano. Using his grip to tilt my head, to give him more room for his kisses. My eyelids sink shut as I give myself over to the ease of his touch. Letting go. Falling. Fitting into his embrace, into the way he holds me, one arm across my back, shoulder to hip, long fingers splayed.

Right then, the sky lights up. Pink. Followed by two loud bangs. A firework. We're both startled. His hold stays tight.

"Idiots," he hisses. "Think of the animals."

Another explosion, then another.

"Someone's birthday?" I ask idly, watching his face in the transient light. But he's still shaking his head, worrying. "Maybe they'll stop soon," I try, wanting to console.

He sighs. "Yeah maybe. Fireworks are for cretins."

I stroke his biceps, the agitation of body hair over smooth skin. He moves us slowly across the room, walking me backwards until we reach my bed, sitting me down with the slightest downward pressure to my shoulders. He steps out of his flip flops. I reach for his fly, unbuttoning him fluidly, quickly, aware of his heat and my curiosity to feel him. But he brushes my hands away, one knee already on the bed as he climbs over me, urging me to lie with him, apparently more patient than me.

"Funny how you're so quiet, I thought you'd be shy. But you're not, are you?" he squints at me, smiling, his eyes in shadow.

He lies back, comfortable on my bed. I suppose we've been here before. Poring over a book or my phone screen, practising letters, sounds and words together. There'd been times when I'd wondered if this might happen, and then dismissed them, sure Jude would have better options than me. And unsure if Jude would be good for me. Too self-assured for my broken ego.

He beckons to me again, reason enough to stop my one-woman retrospective. I turn on my hands and knees and crawl over him, letting him pull me down until we're re-aligned, chest to chest, his legs pulling up either side of me.

"Tell me," he begins, pushing my hair back from my face, "are these," tapping my back pocket with his other hand, "our only protection? You're not on the pill or --"

A quick shake of my head and he nods. "We'll have to be extra careful, then," he finishes, running his hand under my t-shirt.

It's his first touch there. My skin comes to life even as his stroke is slow and limited. Just the small of my back, not even flirting with my bra or skirt; only sure, light sweeps of the band between. I sense his restraint, but also his desire for the slowness. Honestly, it unnerves me. Whenever I'd allowed myself to think about what this might be like, I'd imagined Jude would be his mouthy self. Too much talking. Too much action all at once, maybe? Now, here with him, I'm forced into a rethink. He travels an index finger under my bra, lodging it there. I worry he'll be disappointed in my underwear. It's nothing to write home about, that's for sure. Being practically homeless made all that seem pointless, but now I'm wishing it was prettier.