Habina and the Moon Destroyer

"I have a problem," I said, in my most serious voice.

"Yes, you do," he said, in the same tone.

And then he started to giggle like a five-year-old who'd just peed their pants and was trying to pretend it wasn't them. "Oh man," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes, "you should see your face."

"Fuck off," I told him. But I couldn't help but smile. "This is serious."

"I know," he said, grinning like a loon. "But you're so cute when you think you're all tough like that."

"I'm not cute."

He shrugged. "Okay." He stood up and started for the door. "Well, I'll catch you later."

"Wait!" I yelled. He looked back at me, still grinning. "Did... did you hear anything I just said?"

He nodded solemnly. "You have a problem."

"Yes."

"Well," he said slowly, putting his hands on his hips and looking straight at me, "that's easy to fix."

I shuddered at his words. This was something I had known would happen, deep down in my bones - that he would say something like this, that he would offer me the one thing I wanted more than anything else in the world right now - because it was easier to get what you want if you didn't have to work for it first. And there was no way this creature could understand what I had been through these past few months - with her, with my father, with everything - he could never know how much it hurt and how hard it was to keep going every day without wanting to die myself. But still... hearing those words...

"What do we need?" he asked me. And then he grinned again and said: "Besides another beer?"

When we got back from the store an hour later and went into my bedroom where we kept all of our supplies, he handed me a little bag of white powder and some syringes and told me to start mixing things together while he set up the sound system for us. The music played low as we worked - but not low enough that we couldn't talk over it easily - so we didn't have any trouble carrying on the conversation we already had started in the kitchen when I'd answered his question about needing anything else besides another beer: we talked about sex - what kinds of things turned each other on, what kinds of things turned us off; we talked about drugs (well, mostly him) and alcohol (mostly me), and how they affected us differently; we talked about how shitty life was sometimes but how somehow that too was kind of fun. We were having such a good time that before long it didn't even matter anymore that this wasn't real because honestly? That's the best kind of fun there is: when you don't care whether or not something is real anymore because you've convinced yourself that maybe it doesn't matter either way; because for once in your life things are good and happy and lighthearted enough that maybe it doesn't have to be true; maybe things can just be nice for once...

Then we stopped talking completely as soon as the music stopped - as soon as it got quiet enough that we could hear each other breathing loud in our ears or feel each other's heart beating fast underneath our hands - or rather: my breath caught in my throat as soon as those hands touched my waist, but otherwise everything was silent except for the whirring noises made by the machines keeping him alive inside of his body suit (which smelled vaguely like chicken soup now); except for the sounds leaking out of my own mouth each time he kissed me: soft moans of pleasure; sighs of relief; gasps of pain...