The Waif and the Stray

I look down at his fingers tracing the contours of my hand. "I thought you didn't want to talk to me."

"I'm sorry, Lou. I don't know what to say to make it right."

"You came back."

He leans down, putting his empty bottle on the floor. "Yeah. After Ma set me right, I travelled with them overnight, then hitched into Nottingham and got on a train. Took for-fucking-ever. Sunday, innit?"

"I'm sorry I shouted at you."

"Don't be. I needed a kick up the arse for being so thick."

I chew my lip. "What did you tell your mum about me?"

He grins. "That you're teaching me to read and write. And about the asthma, and telling me to stop smoking."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She'd like to meet you."

"You told her a lot."

"Not everything," with that insouciant wink and a side eye to the bed.

I give him a slow shake of my head. "You'd better tell me about them, then, all your family."

"All of 'em? You remember I'm one of nine kids, don't you? It's going to take a while. And that's before we get on to all their kids, cause there's a ton of them."

I laugh. It feels good. I run my hand over his beard. "You'd best make a start, then. Or did you have other plans tonight?"

He blinks and for a second I don't know what he's thinking, until he practically lifts me up, hands around my ribcage and dumps me further up the bed, shuffling himself until he's lying next to me.

"We needed to be lying down for this conversation?" I ask.

"I need to lie down. I'm knackered."

He strokes my arm, the side of my hip, sometimes my cheek, in lazy patterns as he tells me about his family. His parents, married for nearly fifty years now. Six brothers and two sisters, all older than him. How he was a late baby. A 'last blessing', his mum calls him. A childhood spent between trying to emulate his much older brothers and being spoilt by his two sisters, the closest to him in age but the gap wide enough that they babied him like a doll until he got too big and resistant. I laugh at the idea of him being dressed and pampered like that until he rolls on top of me and kisses me long and hard enough to remind me he's a grown man now. When he rolls off before we get too carried away, I know he's not exaggerating about how tired he is.

"Be back in a minute," I tell him, tapping his chest and wrestling my clothes back into shape as I walk out.

Peeing, washing my hands then my teeth must have taken all of five minutes, but when I get back, he's flat out asleep, turned onto one side, knees drawn up.

I take stock. There's a man in my bed who, two weeks ago, made me feel like the prettiest, sexiest, girl in the world. Who'd found me a home. Is the only person to have ever sung to me. And could make me laugh at anything. Had gone to his family when they needed him without hesitation. And has turned out to be the worst person in the world at talking on the phone. Ok, maybe that last point is a bit unfair. I try to imagine having the conflicted loyalties that a family might cause, but I cannot.

After pulling my clothes off, scrabbling into a t-shirt and braiding my hair, I climb over Jude and lie behind him. He doesn't stir, even as I brush his hair back from his face, and tuck myself close to his back.

Sleep doesn't come immediately, my mind constructing images from what Jude described earlier. His brother, an outdoor man all his life, tucked into a hospital bed. Jude trying to fit into his family's daily routines, caring for the animals, trying to support his mum, his brother's wife and family. Listening to his breathing, I get up again, searching through his pockets until I find his inhaler, leaving it within reach of the bed. Satisfied, I clamber over him and return to my place alongside him, thinking I'll be able to fall asleep this time.

+++

I pause at the door, recognising the music as the bluesy number he'd made me show him on my phone, had practised a couple of times as I'd sat with him, thighs touching. He's practising again, repeating the phrases over and over. I picture his fingers working the keys, his head bent over in concentration. There's a pause, reminding me I'm standing here like a lemon. As I raise my hand to knock, the door swings open.

"Alright?" his tone nonchalant, but a cheeky, nervy grin tugging at his mouth.

He stands to one side to let me in. I blink. He's just out of the shower, hair wet, clean-shaven.

"You coming in, or what?"

I step over the threshold. He hesitates, but I don't. His eyes flash as I kiss him, and again when I swipe a palm over his smooth chin.

"Does that mean I'm forgiven?" he asks.

"For shaving?"

He grunts, a short laugh, closing the door and following me into his kitchen.

"I got extra pappadams," I inform him, holding up the bag of food.

"Wasn't sure you liked the beard," setting out cutlery and plates.

I make non-committal noises until we sit down with full plates of food that make us groan with pleasure.

"This is the best," I sigh.

He shoots me a flash of a grin, eyes dirty. I shake my head at him and switch subjects.

"How's Mal today?"

"Driving them all round the twist."

"Is he going back to the hospital to see the doctors?" I ask, the question's been on my mind a while now.

Jude turns his face away. "Probably not."

"But --"

"He's not one for all that."

"But --"

"Yeah. Ma's beside herself about it, but he's just that sort of a stubborn bastard."

"What if he has another heart attack?"

"Mmm. But, you know," he turns back to look at me, "Travellers don't live as long as other people."

"I read that."

"Why'd you do that? Interested, are ya?"

I can't answer without giving him what he's after, so I pull a face instead, half annoyed, half feigning it. He strokes my forearm before turning back to his food. Something occurs to me as I survey the table in front of us.

"Is that the real reason your mum let you go and live with your Nan? Because of your asthma?"

"Mmm."

"Don't 'mmm' me, Jude. Is it?"

"Yes. Yeah, because of the asthma."

I wait for him to elaborate, feeling his reluctance.

"I had a few bad attacks, Nan wanted out of the life, so --" he shovels more food into his mouth.

We finish the meal, practically licking the plates clean. He tidies up, washing the plates, putting the leftovers into the fridge, crouching down to fuss the ears of a cat that strides in, issuing a plaintiff cry and winding itself in and out of Jude's ankles. Belongs next door, but calls in every so often, so Jude explains, scratching its ears, making it purr like an engine.

"She loves you."

"It's a Tom. All ginger cats are Toms," he corrects me, sweeping a firm hand down the cat's back as it curls around and around him, greedy for more.

Rinsing his hands under the tap, he asks me if I'll go online for info on heart attacks. That's what he wants to read tonight. I pull out my phone as he slides in next to me, arm over the back of my chair. I breathe in.

"Are you sniffing me?"

"What if I am?"

"I just had a shower," indignantly.

"I know. Settle down, you're fine."

He grumbles until I hold my screen up, indicating he needs to choose what he wants to read. We perform our by now usual mumble and stumble through a short article about the effects of heart attacks for younger men.

"What did the doctor say about Mal?"

"He has to quit the smoking, that's one thing. He's testing the patience of his missus and kids, big time."

"Been smoking all his life, has he? Want to pick another one?" holding out my phone for him.

We're plodding our way, less successfully, through a wordy American article when the front door bangs open. Jude stops reading, pushing my phone flat onto the table, before his flatmate can see.

"Hey Jude. Uh, and --"

"Lou," I supply.

"Lou."

"Nitin. How's it going?"

"Too hot, man," he complains, opening the fridge door, fanning it.

"Now I know why the leccy bill's so high," Jude grouses, standing. "C'mon, got something to show you, Lou."

I follow him -- always following him -- upstairs, to his bedroom. A place I haven't seen. Turns out he's in the attic like I am, but his walls are decorated with bright textiles; reds and yellows and dark blues, like a tent. I touch one.

"My family makes these," he says, watching me.

"Is this what you wanted to show me?"

"Nah. Just wanted to get away from Nitin. He's a bit of a dickhead, but he ain't gonna be living here much longer."

"Is he?" I swing round, taking in the rest of the room. His bed is low on the floor, almost like a futon. A line of clothes, strung up neatly across one corner. Notes and coins, removed from pockets, lined up on top of an old, dark wood dresser. Everything clean and efficient.

"That was me Nan's," he offers, still watching me, touching the top of the dresser. "Heavy fucker. It was a bugger to get all the way up here."

I lean in. A small framed picture. Jude, an awkward twelve-ish in baggy t-shirt and jeans, skinny arms around an older woman. "Your Nan?"

"Yeah. Wish you could've met her, I think she'd have liked you."

"You're going to go back, aren't you?" trying so hard not to frown because I've no business imposing my wretched emotions.

He doesn't answer straight away, which is, of course, the answer. He catches at my hand and rubs it between his thumb and fingers. "Yeah. In a day or two. But I'll come back."

"And you'll call me properly this time, when you're away?"

He presses my hand, almost too tightly. "Yeah. I might be a prize idiot but I ain't making that mistake again."

"Have you got pictures of them, too?"

He moves away, scouting for his phone. I sit on the bed next to him and he talks me through his family -- there's a ton of them -- sliding through photos from the last couple of weeks.

"You look more like your mum than your dad," I conclude, flicking back and forth through the images, fascinated by the similarities and differences between them; parents, brothers, sisters, nephews and nieces.

"Do you remember anything about your mum?"

"Nope," I barely look up, examining their eye colour, convinced Jude's the only one with the peculiar blue/green mix. "Never met her."

He lies back, one hand behind his head. "I'll come back, Lou."

"Ok."

"I'll call you every day."

"Ok."

"Twice a day."

I manage a tight smile. He rolls to me, pulls at me, tugging me down to lie next to him. spooning me, pushing my knees up with his, shuffling an almost comical amount until he's satisfied. It's too hot, but I don't care. I love the feel of him so close.

From here I have a view of most of his room. So neat and tidy. Like the photos of his mum's caravan he's just shown me. Everything in its place. Debbie would've loved a kid like this. She was a neat freak too. Despaired of my inability -- or was it an unwillingness? -- to control my stuff. Constantly berating me for dropping things all over the house.

"You must think I'm a right untidy cow," I comment, thinking about what my room looks like.

"Nah. I think you're going to be the best thing to happen to me, that's what I think," his mouth on the back of my neck.

Ok, that was unexpected. I squirm and wriggle, he loosens his grip, until I'm facing him. I kiss his smooth cheeks because I can't say it back. Not yet.

"I missed you," he breathes, tilting his head, offering me his neck.

"Did you?"

"Yeah," a lazy sweep of his hand down my back. "Did you miss me?"

I stomp on my instinct to be evasive. "Yeah, Jude."

"There -- it's not so difficult to say, is it?"

I hum. His hand pushes at the small of my back, pressing us together. Sighing, I let myself unfurl, to relax in his hold. His kiss is long and gentle and sure. I didn't think there'd be any more surprises, that it'd feel the same as last time, but there are. This time, it's even better. Everything of mine reaches out for him, as if to turn me inside out for him.

"Yeah, you feel it too, don't ya? We're made for each other, you and me, Lou. You'll see."

I shiver as he weaves his tale of us, binding us tight with it, the words like twine, his voice dropping to the lowest murmur. His first sight of me that first day on the beach. Sharing his knowledge about the cheapest places to live, buy food, to travel on the bus. His delight in running into me a few days later on St George's Road. His frustration at my aloofness. His patience with it. The payback for finally getting me to laugh. His shock at divulging his secret -- his inability to read -- in a moment of anger. His gratitude I didn't take the piss; an opportunity, not a rejection. I listen to it all. Every single, important, kind word.

"You could write stories or poems, Jude. Or songs."

He snorts dismissively.

"I'm not having you on. You have a really nice way of saying things. Clever."

He doesn't reply. At least not in words. I lie back, Jude's words tumbling around my mind until the touch of his hands and mouth and body soothe me, breaking down the lines and borders between us, until I'm falling into him, unable to find space or difference between us, losing myself with him. He tugs at my clothes, baring my stomach, kissing it relentlessly as I flinch and gasp beneath him, licking at my skin when it's too ticklish, letting it cool before beginning all over again. Not until I protest out loud, my voice sounding dry, does he finally let up, offering me a cheeky wink before using his thumbs to drag my shirt upwards, over my bra, my shoulders and my head, chucking it over the side of the bed. Crouched over me, head down, all attention focused on me. Who needs a high from pushers on the streets when this is so good?

"What's that grin about?" he asks, all green and blue flashes.

"You make this feel so good," slipping out of me as if I say this sort of thing naturally.

His eyes flicker, darken, with curiosity, maybe. He pauses, raising an eyebrow. "See? You can talk about sex. I knew you'd get into it."

"I what now?"

"Talk about it. I might even get you really into it, until you're telling me everything," with another, dirtier, wink.

"Jude," but he isn't going to be admonished.

Instead, he gives me more. With his hands, rougher than before. His mouth, lips and tongue, dipping and rolling over me, dispensing with my bra as he goes, until I'm gripping his hair.

"Yeah, like that, girl," his voice deeper; harsh, even.

We fumble out of our clothes in a messy tangle of arms and legs. He sits up with his back to the wall, letting me watch him for a few seconds before reaching for me. I kneel in front of him. Kiss him.

"Show me what you want, Lou."

I inch closer. He lifts to my first touch, that lift of his hips that's going to kill me. I moan into his mouth and he does it again. Lifting up, sliding higher in my hand. Hot and hard, getting sticky. He hums, his breath tripping when I look down at what we're doing, reaching to still my hand with his.

"Too soon," he sighs, holding us there, letting me feel his pulse.

I swallow, almost scared by how he bares himself like this, allowing me to see him so intimately. Daring me to be as brave. He leans in, his mouth on mine, insistent for a few seconds, before pulling back.

"Trust me, Lou. I'm going to look after you, you'll see."

I don't know how he does that. Does he actually read my mind? I forget to care at his first touch between my legs. A gentle glide forcing my entire body to snap to attention.

"Mmm," his eyebrows lift.

I clench my thighs together, boiling with embarrassment and want at how wet he's made me. He bends his fingers a little, enough to make a world of difference and I clutch onto his other arm to steady myself. He moves his fingers, coaxing me, bringing me to the brink, wings spread, ready to jump. Leaving me gasping as he pulls them away from me, stroking himself, kissing me hard on the mouth, fragments of sound from his throat. Twisting to one side, retrieving something from the bedside, sitting back, eyes down.

I touch his wrist.

"You want to?" he asks.

Ignoring my shaky hands, he shows me what to do, talks me through it, quietly, his fingers gentle and patient. Shuddering when I roll it all the way down, a brush of my fingers underneath, a rueful smile and a long exhale before drawing me into a long sweet kiss, hands curved under me, urging me closer. Prolonging the torture and the pleasure when his fingers resume their work, a slow slide back to the place between my legs, pausing for a few delicious seconds before curling into me. Really into me, this time. Forcing a surprised sort of noise from my throat, which he kisses, tenderly, even as his fingers reach higher inside, until the heel of his hand is pressed hard to me. My hips grind down onto him of their own accord, my bird's wings extending, filling the tips of my fingers and toes in one full, glorious stretch.

An earthy noise chases out of Jude's throat. "Lou, your body's so strong. Feel that," a sudden, deep tightening, stroking me from the inside.

My breath stalls. I row back, panting. His eyes spring open.

"What?"

I lean, almost fall, into him, heart racing. "Not like that," I whisper, too timid to ask.

"How, then?" stroking the side of my face with his hand that smells of me.

I touch him. He hums, a sound of approval. Pulls at me, lifting my hips, moving me over him. I follow his lead, clumsily because, no, none of the other boys ever wanted it like this.

"Yeah, that's it," he encourages me, hands on my hips now, looking down at where we're so close. Almost touching. "That's it, lower, like that," a smile of encouragement, holding himself steady for me, a light kiss to my shoulder.

I go timidly until he gives me a firmer push downward, lifting his hips up. After that, I am lost. His slow, sure invasion forces thrilling spikes of heat upwards until I'm burning alive. Unable to get any closer, both of us breathe out. Joined. A heavenly prelude. He kisses the side of my face, the corner of my jaw. My lips. I kiss him back, for making me feel loved.

"Look at you," a tremor in his voice, fighting to stay in control, to keep his hips still.

I bend to him, to kiss his neck, wanting him to know that he's the one worth looking at. That I'm too skinny and pale and scarred for this much love.

"You're the beautiful one," he argues back, sliding one of his hands between us, pressing it flat against my belly, hitching his hips into me.

Which is like nothing I've ever felt. He does it again. As though the flat of his palm is calling to every cell, blood vessel, quivering feather and nerve ending. Gathering and tightening them together before casting them wide. I groan.

"Good?" he asks, kissing the top of my shoulder, his hips working harder now.

I move with him, matching his pace, gripping his arms, the palm of his hand pressing into me, constricting me, making for a maddening, deliciously tight pressure deep inside. He neither speeds up nor slows down, but the feeling builds anyway. Deliberate, unhurried, his body glistening with effort. His eyes have fallen shut, black eyelashes indecently pretty against his skin, hair flopped over his forehead. A bright image of him grinning at me, sitting on the camp bed, giving me shit for something or other, ignoring my dirty hair and clothes. I'm not going to cry. But -- why me, I want to ask.

"We're meant for each other, that's why," he replies, eyes heavy.

His fingers curl as he slows down, grabs my hips, holding me as he hikes us up, almost kneeling before lowering me onto my back, the sheets cool. Pushing my legs wider with his body, nothing hesitant about finding his place in me, sure of what we need, low broken sounds from his throat, fitting himself into me to the hilt. An adjustment, shifting his weight, heavier and deeper; the slow press inside, the hitch and the twist. And again.