DIRT: the grunge diaries (𝒱𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶'𝓈 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃)

entry #36 - big, big ... love, confusion

'Cherry, Cherry baby. I remember you '. He answers, and I can feel him smiling into our little kiss. I smile back, and I finally manage to gather together the basic strength to open my eyes, and look up to him. My eyes meet his, and I instantly get the weird, funny feeling in my stomach, once again, within just hours. He's half asleep, but scrumptious as ever. Messy hair, swollen lower lip because a Cherry might've bit it so hard to leave a mark on it, last night. He's smiling, it looks like he's happy to find out how not-so-scrumptious I look in the morning ... and he's doing his virtual best to keep his eyes open because he's just as wiped out as I am.

I chuckle, half morning stupid, half lovesick, when I realise that the ring into his right nostril is a little bit displaced. And, being the average good, fellow nose pierced potential little girlfriend that I am, I offer to fix it and instantly begin to toy with the silver plug. I twist and turn it so far that I can finally see the little silver ball again, and I nod with satisfaction. Once I'm done, I kiss the tip of his nose and he wraps his arms so tight around me that I'm pretty sure he's going to break a few of my ribs. And only when I'm that close to him, I remember that he has a dick, and it's now gently rubbing against the outside of my thigh. Good morning, my beloved? Ahem... a very good morning to you.

We are here, totally undone and very harmless, oddly tame, still clad from last night, tucked under the sheets, and all over one another. Looks as though as I've got no escape... and man, that's exactly what I wanted. Having no other option but him. My beautiful, kind hearted, sweetheart menace, mr. Honda Four.

'We're running fucking late, d'ya know?' He speaks, a sordid laugh into my ear to accompany his words. We're running fucking late, but he's oddly chill about it. We may as well miss the tour bus, and have to ride our way to Denver, but he couldn't care any less. His arms are still around me and he's still smooching my forehead like it's the only thing he wants to do for the rest of the day. I don't have anything to do all day long, besides him, because I'm a delusional, lovesick ass, so this sits about fine for me. But he's slightly less delusional than me, he has a career and the post office really needs him and his talent for delivering the goods. He's the man with the box, ain't he?

'Fuck, I...'. I whimper, as I try to stand up from his chest so that we can go get ready for the long day ahead of us. Doing everything in our power not to run too disgustingly late for whatever we're going to be up to. But he doesn't let me move, not even by mistake: he just pins me down where I belong, aka with my head on his chest, and he tucks us tighter under the blanket. Giving me the smooches, the little cuddles and all the good things that make me fall harder and harder for him, minute after minute. I love him just a little bit more than I did before I fell asleep on him last night... and man, it's only 9am. I think I'll ask him to flat out marry me by the time it's 9pm.

'I've never said it's a bad thing ... I'm always fucking late. And you look good in my bed'. He answers, and the very sincere explanation of how he's always late for shit doesn't chuff me nor make me feel any better with wasting his time, when I know he'd have some more important shit to care of. But I let him get away with it... and y'know why? Because he's such an adorable simp, and I could never be able to resist his embrace and his sweet, little, unexpected compliments. And because I know that if someone tries to come for him for running late to a Phellus rendezvous, he's gonna try to murder them. I really do need to learn how to get a hold over his anger... I want to rub his face with my hands, I don't really want to rub his wounds with peroxide after a brawling session. I want to be his little girlfriend, not his nurse.

'Sean, this ain't your bed'. I chime in, a laugh to accompany my silly comment, because we both know that it ain't his actual bed, the one we're laying on. It's just a one time stop kinda bed at the Marriott in Oakland. Paid by Phellus in Chains' tour management, not even by him. He will be charged a lot because we drank the minibar dry, and we'll get a fine because I've smoked in this room, no matter the 'no smoking' sign on the door ... but it doesn't make this room any more of his own. Tomorrow his bed's gonna be somewhere else along the highway as we ride to Denver, and hopefully he'll share that one with me as well. California dreamin', Colorado dreamin'... I'm getting a lil spoiled here, and I'm afraid I may get used to it.