Stages of Love: Exploration of a Relationship Through The Five Senses
Sight - On Wearing You
It was his jeans that nudged at my complacence. Old, frayed in spots, with that hint of a hole just to the right of the left pocket, the two were like old friends - comfortable with each other and forgiving the quirks and flaws.
Heero's jeans weren't tight, but hugged him in just the right places. He fit them like they fit him. Like I wanted to fit. Like I wanted him to fit me.
We were playing pool the night the shift came, and I had my chance to wear him and him me. I think I won that round.
Hearing - On Hearing You
It was never enough.
The way Heero would say my name in multi-spectrum hues, varied nuances in a three lettered word. The way it was murmured in the still dark of night, just waking from a dream. The gasping hitch when that spot was hit just right. Clipped and short, anger held in check. Whispered against my skin as he stroked my flesh. In breathless greeting from an unexpected call.
Not many could claim as extensive a vocabulary as Heero. But my name from his mouth, no matter the reason, was rich and full of expressions no others held.
Touch - On Casting Light
Shadows have followed me all my life, obscuring what the light would show, what the day would bring. The unknown would wake me, keep me from sleep. Worst, it inseminated dreams, twisted them into horror shows that would leave me gasping, panicked screams dying as sense returned.
Uncertainty would drive me from bed, from Heero’s side; the solitary chair and cool surface of the window pane offered poor substitutes.
When it seemed the shadows scored another point and darkness shrouded my heart, the brightest light would come. Heero’s hands, Heero’s lips, Heero’s arms were there, and I was not alone.
Smell - On Scents of Change
Standing close behind Heero, I am again reminded of the changing constant about him - the smells that surround him, making him who he is.
From our first meeting, his was the scent of war - machinery, hot and powerful. Gun powder. Explosives.
In the scholarly years, it was paper and ink, and musty, old, reference books.
After we’d come to our understanding, he carried the smell of sweat and semen, of sex and mingled musk.
At this moment, I only lean closer, reach around him and snag a finger-size piece of chicken he’d been stir-frying for dinner.
Taste - On Encompassing You
Heero was warm against my chest, some video was playing and I was on a elbow, leaning against the couch arm watching Heero. Still in his work clothes sans boots, his hair was standing up on one side from a recent habit. His voice was low, listening himself to the show, but still telling me about the day. A hint of his cologne still clung, mixed with the sweat and smell of the factory floor.
A kiss changed, and suddenly he was turning smiling at me, wiping his cheek. "Miss lunch today?"
"No, I just like the taste of you."