bones bones bones, via the first impromtu anatomy lesson from Gerard
But I had a headache and was already as nauseated as I cared to be, courtesy of the spinning stage and Gerard's flashes of indiscretion.
The bus was empty and warm, and I had barely shed off my clothing and slipped into a white shirt and boxers before I felt the tips of my fingers tingling with the instant temperature change. I climbed into my bunk and shut the curtains, knowing that I had a good hour and half before the rest of the band would start coming back; they loved England.
But I stayed awake. The noises of people outside laughing and talking kept my eyes wide open. The sound of the breeze hitting the side of the bus alerted me to every rock and sway. My own weariness and lack of sleep kept my dreary eyes from shutting.
Several hours later, I heard the distinct voices of Mikey and Ray as the door opened, talking loudly and chuckling. But another voice instantly shushed them, and they quiet, I assume for my sake.
"Where's Bob?" Mikey whispers, and I might have smiled at the pointlessness. But it was sweet nonetheless, and I play along--like anyone in my situation would do.
"Out with the red-head," I hear Gerard mutter, close to my bunk, and panic rushes through my body. I instantly shut my eyes and try to relax, in case he opened the curtain, but he didn't. I hear rustling above me. He was changing. Oh.
"Hmm," Mikey hums. "Wasn't she with us a few days ago as well?"
"Yeah," Ray whispered back. "I think he may like this one."
I heard Gerard chuckle, so very near to me, and I tightened my eyes for no real reason. I already figured that he wouldn't check on me.
"Don't get your hopes us; Bob has stuck with quite a few of them for a while..."
There was a short silence before the sound of Mikey stretching. "Alright, whatever. I'm going to bed you guys; I'm beat."
Ray murmured some sort of agreement, and two sets of shoes could be heard making their way down the hall. A few minutes of rustling, then two creaks of mattresses tell me that they had climbed into bed, and I breathed a sigh of relief, waiting for the bunk above me to creak in the same manner.
But it never does
Just a few more minutes.
...What was he doing?
I felt the bus start up. We were moving.
The night crept on, until my phone read either 1:12 or 11:12. My mind was too fuzzy and sleep-deprived to really read it correctly. Mentally declaring sleep tonight as a lost cause, I slowly pulled back my curtains discreetly as possible and climbed silently out of bed. Looking up, I found his bed empty and swallowed thickly, feeling apprehension knot in my stomach, with a slight hint of what I knew was worry.
I peered into the gloom of the back room, squinting my eyes and trying to shelter my body against the wall in case he could see me in the light from the window better than I could see him. Summoning my wits and shaking my head to try and wake myself up (suddenly forgetting that I was never asleep in the first place), I walked cautiously down the hall and pushed the door open fully.
He sat on the couch, cross-legged, his head leaning against the wall behind him and his skin reflected eerily in the TV.
My voice croaked. God damnit.
His eyes brighten as he looks up, and I know it's only because they're reflecting the faint tint of light through the door, but it still shoves away my ease and an involuntary shiver runs up my spine.
No. No way. No fucking way. I find my voice and the word comes out scratched and torn, but definite.
But as I'm saying it, I feel my feet scuff forward, and I feel the blood pulsing through them and wonder how I've lost control of myself. He cocks his head, not in confusion, but in curiosity, and holds out his hand. I stop my steps and hold my breath, not taking it. Unfazed, he grabs hold of my wrist and pulls me down next to him, turning slightly to face me.
His hands are strange and like nothing I've ever felt. They're not soft, like Jamia's, but they're not rough and gritty like mine or Mikey's. Maybe it's because he doesn't play an instrument on a daily basis like us. Maybe it's because he takes better care of his appearance than we do. Maybe it's because his skin reflects his soft piercing eyes and liquid words. I draw my thoughts away as his finger traces a line at the bottom of my wrist.
"This is called the scaphoid..."
His finger presses lightly until it rests against the bone, and I feel the connection as the tip of it turns slightly pink under the pressure. And then he moves, tracing the expanse of my palm and fingers, his voice like honey and poison as he names each and every bone.
I have no idea why he's doing it. I came back here expecting a confrontation; an explanation, a continuation, an exchange of witty and partially witty comments that would get nothing accomplished.
Not a fucking impromptu anatomy lesson.
He continues, tracing his hands up and down my palms, naming the bones as he touches each otf them lightly, the darkness threatening to overpower his voice, and yet, miraculously, enhancing it as well.
He raises his eyes to mine as he places his fingers around my pinky, his words gliding right over my lips.
I pause. My mind feels fuzzy, something close to intoxication, but I'm suddenly fully aware of every bone from my wrist to my fingers.
"Gerard, what the fuck is going on? Can you just answer me that? And please don't try and kiss me again, because I really don't fucking need that to mess with my head. Please, would you just..."
But my words are cut short as he takes both of my hands and places them against his chest, and I feel like I'm back in eight grade, trying to ask Sandra Gillian to the dance, and I'm sweating in the cold. And I think he knows that I'm hyper aware of everything he's just done, despite my lack of sleep, and it fucking scares me.
My hands are pressed against the solid plane, and I'm daring that door to creak open further and have someone walk in while we sit here like a couple of fags. But it doesn't, and Gerard's voice is low and syrupy, like a web, and I'm caught in it and my breath hitches. I'm scared to fucking /death/.
My voice is pathetic. I feel pathetic. It's brittle and cracked, mirroring my resolve. He splays my fingers out on his chest and runs my hands down and up his sides.
He drags my hands with his as I map out his chest and the slight inward curve of his ribs, running my thumbs across every bone that I can feel beneath his shirt. He does this over and over, and after a while, I'm aware that his hands have left mine and I'm the one moving them over his chest. I stop immediately. He traces the ridge on my cheek and out of nowhere I ask him what bone it is.
"The zygomatic, or malar. It goes from here...to here."
He traces my cheek from underneath my eye to the front of my ear, where he tucks a strand of loose hair behind it.
From that moment on, I lose all sense of normalcy. And as the world travels by at 70 miles per hour outside the window, I listen and hang on Gerard's every word as he names every one of the two hundred and six bones in my body. Stuck in utter surrealism, sitting on a ratty couch, and feeling strangely limp and responsive, caught in the web of thick, glossy words sliding from his mouth.
And within minutes, or hours, or days, I find myself leaning against his chest as he holds my hand in front of me and touches the edge of my thumb gently.
I say the word automatically, and I feel my eyes droop. His hand is an envelope of warmth, and his breathing steadies my own and gives me the feeling of perfect, constricting comfort. He touches another bone. I name it. Another. I feel myself falling. I feel my lips moving; I feel his chest rising against my back, but my eyes close and there is only darkness and warmth.
Ahahahaaaa! Did you expect a hot make-out scene? Well, you didn't get one! Bwuahahahaaaa!!