BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

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FRIDAY
14.12.1990
DORIAN

               Isaiah's mouth is where I cultivate my garden.

Cross-legged on the bed, his knees press into mine. I wish they would leave bruises. I wish his fingers at the back of my neck would leave bruises too, for him to use his grip to kiss me so hard the skin of my lips tears and my nose breaks, and to keep kissing me; drink the blood, I made it for you. I want his teeth to sink into my neck. At the horrified looks of whoever would see me next, I would shrug (nonchalantly, the way he does but I never learnt to) and say, I was hungry.

The thoughts would make me sick if I had the time to feel anything but love and desire. Desire which is only intensified by the fact that he is now my boyfriend. The word reels around my head, injecting itself into my veins to fill my whole body with he need to absorb into his. Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend...

His other hand is planted over my heart, feather-light.

My hands on his waist gather the fabric of his uniform shirt until it untucks from his trousers.

Isaiah peels back, drinking several lungfuls before he's able to speak. 'I thought we was doing homework.' He glances at the amber sky over my shoulder. 'Sabbath starts soon.'

I take the opportunity to kiss the spot behind the corner of his jaw and he shudders. I trail my lips down until I'm intercepted by his shirt collar.

'We can do homework on Sunday.'

To prove the point, I shove our books onto the floor. The thuds are honey in my mouth: a reward. All the other boys on this floor are home (it's Shabbat and Chanukah) and for the first time, we don't have to stifle noise.

My hands slip under his shirt to tug the ribbed tank from his waistband too, though I keep my fingers over the fabric. 'Can I touch you?'

Isaiah's hand guides mine under the top, presses it flat to his skin. The other on my throat, he pushes me away to meet my gaze.

'You—' he plants a kiss on my mouth '—are obsessed with me.'

I nod. 'Yes.'

I graze his nipple with my thumb and the smirk wipes off his face. Eyes glazed, he finds the hem of his shirt to unbutton it but I pull his hands away.

'I want to do it.'

The protest that has already reached his tongue melts like a sugar cube.

After dozens of times, my fingers still tremble as I slip each pearly disk through its slit (so much for piano genius, I have never been clumsier). Isaiah gazes at me as I do. I love how he looks into my eyes when I look away. I'll wait, it says. All the world is secondary in beauty.

Arms forming parentheses around mine, he traces the shape of my skull: the back of my head, my browbone, cheekbones, the ridge of my nose. Finger in my mouth, he imprints the shape of each tooth into his flesh.

'How are we going to survive at Oxford when you live in Magdalen and I live in Keble?' It's half joke, half genuine fear we'll drift apart when we have different classes in different colleges.

I focus on undoing the buttons with numb fingers. When the shirt falls open (save for the collar which is kept in place by his tie), I lay my hands symmetrically on my thighs.

'What if instead of university accommodation, we get our own flat?'

Isaiah yanks his hands from me as if burnt, snatching my gaze from his chest to his wide eyes. They flit rapidly between each of mine.