Well Balanced

I slip out as every muscle in his body gives out. I keep the pulses flowing and cover his back, hitting the tangles of his hair, the arm of the couch, painting his back with broad lines. My own strength gives out and I fall backwards. It's over. It's all in the grand collapse. Everything is black. Everything is white. Everything is empty and cold, and I have no thoughts about anything. The dishwasher stops and we only have each other's deep panting for company.

Darian starts laughing. His things are still trembling. My hands are still on his pale skin, sharp and red. I throw my head back and let the calm come to claim me.

"You're going to clean this up," I say. The command hangs in the moment. He tries to find something in him that will disobey. He finds nothing, nothing at all. His legs shake and barely carry his weight as he takes his tongue to the puddle of his release.

"Not like that," I sigh, "Unless you want to. There's something under the sink for that. Paper towels are on the counter."

He sheepishly pulls away. I don't really know what he wanted to do with that, but I'm fair from stopping this particular kink. Darian doesn't get to the task I gave him right away. He slinks over to me, thin body twisting and turning like a cat before nesting on my chest. My sweater is soft and warm, both of them. He has a moment to lay his head and listen to my heartbeat. I'll allow that. We can take five minutes and bask. I'm not so much of a taskmaster to deny anyone a well-deserved break.

---

"The hardflip looks better, Ty," Darian says. He's back in his clothes. The couch is clean. I'm freshly showered, again. I click through the slideshow and I'm still not seeing it.

"Really," I say, "Not the finger one? Look at that line you make. It matches with the mural."

He leans back and tilts his head. I go back and forth a few more times between the photos. The washing machine rumbles and clicks. He took the initiative on that. We both like my sweaters, and we both want what's best for them. Unfortunately, the dry cleaner's too far away. They'll survive a bit of rough and tumble. He has a sewing kit somewhere in case something really goes wrong.

Darian has a point, now that I've flipped back and forth a handful of times. The spin's a bit more dynamic. Can't quite make out as much of the board, but it's still enough. And it's later in the morning, so there's more light. So, he has a better eye for it in the end and that's the one I'm leading with. I also like the wall plant and that goes second. My original baby gets slotted in third, and that's officially enough to get billed for. Might even get a feature on the site. Doubt we'll make the next print run, but that's just down to timing.

I'm still tired. I'm going to bed as soon as Darian leaves, but that can wait a while more. Just having him here is a nice lift to my mood. He can stay and peruse and knock things over like an ornery cat as long as he wants, but my place isn't his place, and his place is nice.

"So," he says as I finish putting the files together, "What's your plan for the day?"

He's lacing up his shoes. He's already brimming with energy again, ready to face whatever trails the world can throw at him. If it's too much he can put himself back together. And if hasn't he has my number. I can see the bump on his head. If anything, it makes him look smarter, like he actually has something in his skull.

"Crash," I say as I stretch with something giving in my back, "I've already put a full day in and it's not even noon. Have the rest of my chicken for dinner. Go to the store tomorrow. You?"

"Probably skate around a bit more. They put up a new pedestrian bridge by the museum and it's supposed to have these weird wavy benches."

I glare at him, first at the welt and then in his eyes. There's a bit of confusion there, like he shouldn't be in trouble. Then he remembers the fall and the pain and the several days of staying up without eating.

"No, I'm not," he says, "I'm going right home and icing this thing down and taking a nap. Don't think I have anything like yours in the fridge, but I can order a pizza or something."

I'll allow that. Might not be the healthiest thing, but it's still a treat after a long day's work and a decent injury. He might even put a vegetable on it.

"And I'll probably go to the store tomorrow too," he adds, completely unprompted, "I really liked that quiche thing. Can I have the recipe?"

"Just got it on some website. I'll send the link later. I'm also going to bring up the spot with the rest of the editors on Thursday. Maybe see if we can get a squad out there, find the artist and see if they want to get involved somehow."

He likes that idea. I like that idea. But it's also an idea for later. Right now, he's just kind of standing awkwardly, waiting for some moment to change so he can leave. I heave myself out of the chair, not liking any of the little pops and creaks that come with the movement.

I kiss him on the forehead, and he presses into it. One last bit of tenderness before he dives back into the harsh biting wind. I think we might even get some snow. The weatherman cannot be trusted. I watch him leave, bobbing down the staircase and something deep in my heart sighs. I don't know what I would do without him.