one to the nose; not enough to break, but enough to bruise.
the response to the jaw; a pop of the neck.
back, now an elbow to the chest.
forth, punch to the stomach.
back, grab to the back of the head- hard.
forth, the kiss.

tommy was aware he was bleeding the way one is aware to time ticking away and to water slowly rising to boil; he did not care. he cared about the hands sliding over his body and the mouth on his and the hot heavy breath and it's familiar taste (cigarettes, spearmint) and the way he felt post fight mixing quick with the way he felt pre fuck.
he cared after, too. he cared about elliott in class (two rows ahead, bruised lip, that god-awful varsity boy attitude). he cared about elliott on the street (walking into walnut cafe with a girl what girl who is she hope it's his sister must be his sister no one else could be as beautiful). he cared about elliott when his fist was about to connect with his (perfect) skin. he wanted just to pull back, really, and touch him the way a lover would, but they weren't lovers, and elliott didn't like it if it didn't hurt.

he didn't care the first time. it must have been freshman year. it had been stupid, really. elliott had called him a stupid paddy faggot. tommy swung first.

tommy couldn't remember exactly why the second fight started, but he remembered going home after and the funny way his stomach felt.

the third time was over a girl. molly miller. she wasn't interested in either of them, and after that particular fight neither of them cared for her either. it was bloody and drawn out, raging on in a dark alley while passerby ignored the noise. and then a belt came undone, and whatever shirt tommy was wearing that day was lost to time.

just a way to relieve the tension.

tommy forgot how to be happy unharmed. he liked it when it hurt, and elliott never pulled his punches.

it was a perfect arrangement until it wasn't.

one slap to the face; light
one punch to the ribs; hard
one kiss; long.

you're off your game, elliot had said. are you sick or something?

i'm in love with you. tommy had replied; shameless.

don't fuck with me, man.

i'm serious.

that's not healthy.

i don't want to be healthy. i want you.

are you fucking joking with me?

i don't want to hurt you anymore.

elliott stopped fighting after that. tommy's injuries faded. he did not remember how to be happy unharmed. the time he usually spent with elliot went blank. just pacing, back and forth and back and forth. he opened cabinets and closed them back and stuck his head in the oven out of curiousity and ran his hands under the faucet. he opened a silverware drawer.

better than nothing, he thought.

he picked up a knife.