Someone Out There Loves You

*Chloe POV*
The next few months passed by in a blur. Life changed dramatically – up became down, left became right, and loneliness was a thing of the past. Gerard had moved in, leaving behind his old apartment and fancy building. His stuff was now scattered all over my, our, apartment, and the sight still felt strange six months later. The apartment was no longer girly, pretty and nice and neat. Papers were littered on almost every surface. Gerard’s laptop had a permanent place on the kitchen table, which I found annoying, even though we didn’t use it for anything else. We tended to eat on the couch, in front of the television, like the lazy fuckers we were. He was still the arrogant prick who could get a rise out of me with a few words, and that smirk on his pretty-boy face. The bookshelves, which had been half filled with my dvds, was now filled to breaking point when Gerard’s collection was included. His record collection was stored in the spare bedroom, and if I so much as went near them, Gerard would watch me like a hawk, as though my mere presence would break them. I’m a clumsy person, but I highly doubt my clumsinesswould have been enough to destroy his collection.
It hasn’t been easy. It’s an adjustment, living with someone. Especially when you want to kill the person you live with, as much as you want to fuck them. We argued over things like whose turn it was to cook, whether Buffy was a better show than Angel, and why Gerard hadn’t taken the garbage out, and why, dear Lord, did he have to be so messy when he was drawing?
“Why do you have to be such a bitch?” was the standard response to that, before he’d slap my ass and kiss me.
I knew it was love. I felt it in every fibre of my being. I loved waking up beside him every morning, enveloped in his arms that felt safe, warm, and mine. I loved watching him work when he was sketching, painting, or even just sitting beside me on the couch in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that was two sizes too big for him. Even when we were arguing, and I wanted nothing more than to throw a frying pan at him, and bruise his pretty face, I loved him. When we were fucking, it wasn’t just sex. It was the first time I felt that the horribly cliché, lovesick, term ‘making love’ applied. Most of the time, anyway. There were times when it was just old fashioned ‘let’s get off’ kind of sex, which normally occurred after too many drinks, and took place in the most random of places, like the back alley of a bar, the bathroom of a restaurant, or the bottom end of the bed. We fought, we fucked, and sometimes I left him with the odd bruise on his shin when I got pissed off at him over something stupid, but we worked in our own warped way. We hadn’t spoken the words yet, though. I think we were both just afraid of what would happen if they were spoken aloud. We had both been hurt by people who had said those words, and they felt tainted, and a precursor to disaster. We shared a bed, we shared our lives (I had met Mikey, who shared my sense of humour; and he'd met my friends, who had been threatened with death if they spoke about his previous profession.)We just didn’t talk about his past. Our past.
Gerard was now out of the game of prostitution. His skinny jeans were tucked away in the bottom of a drawer somewhere, never to be seen again. I missed them, but I didn’t miss the association of him being with other women, which came to mind whenever they clad his long legs. Gerard was doing commissioned art work, which didn’t bring in much money, but that didn’t matter. He insisted on giving me money towards rent and bills, which had lead to more than one fight between us, that ended with me on my back while he screwed me senseless, until I forgot what we were arguing about. He would sneak the money into my account, or my wallet, and as much as it irritated me, I admired his insistence on paying his way. He was working consistently, though, and his hours were flexible, as long as he met his deadline, so he had a little bit of the freedom that meant so much to him. He had enough time in his day to work on a comic idea of his. He didn’t let me look at it too often – he seemed almost afraid of my opinion, which I found odd, since he was a person who let insults and criticism roll off his back. I put it down to his art being too personal, his ideas and creations came from his mind, and as such, they were a part of him. I tried not to be too hurt by his obvious mistrust, which was tough, but I refused to let it get to me. I knew it was hard for him, too. He was struggling with the change, just like I was. Probably more, really. He gave up a good paying ‘job’, a really nice apartment, his lifestyle, even. I had asked a lot of him, and I was conscious of that every day, when I’d see him with a paintbrush in his hands, his eyebrows furrowed, and a lip worried between his small teeth, and I just knew that he was struggling to put what he was told to do, and what his vision was, together in a cohesive vision. I worried that he regretted his choice to give it up, that his sacrifice was too much for him to bear, and that one day it would crush him down, and turn him into a bitter shell of his former self. He never spoke about it, and whenever I pried, he would just give me that smirk and say something witty that had nothing to do with what he was working on, or how he truly felt about what he was doing now, and if it was worth it.
Things were different, but they were good. Strange, disconcerting, a little bit, sometimes dizzying from the intensity of it all, when we lost ourselves in our bubble, and locked the outside world away for a little while, and just enjoyed being together under a duvet on the couch, watching some trashy horror movie I’d never seen before. Sometimes I felt the old fear come back, rising up and clawing at my chest, infiltrating my brain and telling me that one day he’d break my heart, just like my ex had, that I wouldn’t be good enough for him to stay with me, love me, maybe do the corny stuff I wanted deep down inside, like marriage and children. When the fear came, it would take my breath away - my lungs felt heavy, and water clogged, and my heart raced with panic that was akin to a panic attack. Then he would wrap his arms around me, or insult my height, or congratulate me on my excellent choice of film, and it would fade into the background. He made me forget about the things that bothered me, the things that made my skin crawl, the things that used to keep me up at night. All the unimportant, paranoid thoughts just didn’t bother me the same way they used to. I felt comfortable within myself in a way that I had never felt before, and it was a baffling, yet oddly therapeutic, turn of events. Self-loathing was never far under the surface, but it was easy to brush off the snide comments my subconscious would make when I caught sight of myself in the mirror, or when it tried to criticise my self-worth, when Gerard would tell me how he thought I was beautiful, and the toughest bitch he'd ever met, in an endearing tone that told me he meant it.
“Did you really have to put it on the top shelf?” I asked in a deathly quiet whisper, my eyes glaring at Gerard, who was standing with a hip resting against the kitchen counter, that smug smirk on his face again.
“There was no room for it in the other cupboard. It’s not my fault you’re the height of a hobbit.”
“Fuck you! I’m three inches taller than the tallest recorded hobbit.”
“In heels, maybe.”
I threw the dish cloth by the sink at him, and the fucker caught it in one hand.
“Whatever. You’re just jealous that I don’t have a single grey hair yet.”
“I’d rather be grey than a ginger.”
“Auburn. And I saw the look on your face when I pointed it out. You’re vainer than any women I’ve ever met.”
“I’m also prettier than any women you’ve met. Your point is moot.”
“Your dick is moot.”
“Sugar, if you want to get laid, you can just ask. No need for vulgarity.”
“You wish!” I turn my back on him, facing the cupboard again and stretching up on my tippee toes to reach the packet of rice, as though I had suddenly grown an extra two inches in the last thirty seconds, and could magically reach the blue packet that was just out of my reach. I wasn’t too surprised when I pushed into the counter, a torso that was far longer than mine flushed against my back. A long arm reached out, a broad hand wrapping long fingers around the blue packet. The blue package was set down on the counter in front of me, then the hands slid down my sides, over my waist, across my hips and down my stomach where they dipped inside my black cotton trousers. His hand slipped inside my white panties, and I was done for, letting out a loud gasp.
“Hhhmmm, I think your body is saying otherwise, sugar.”
“Uh-“
I just couldn’t think of a reply, not when his fingers were stroking me slowly, turning my mind into mush.
“Now you know why I keep it on the top shelf,” he licked the shell of my ear, and I didn’t give a flying fuck about the rice anymore.

Notes

Guys!!!!

There are three more chapters after this! The next two chapters will be quite fast paced I imagine. I hope you enjoyed this latest offering. Remember, feedback is awesome.

Lyra xxx