Marco

Oh, it's not that you weren't also! The ambiance was energizing. The music was great, even if the drums were starting to make your head pulse. The space wasn't too small so as to make you feel trapped, even if the amount of people pretty much made it seem so.

It was more like medium to medium-large. The largest closed space Hobie's band had played in yet. It was a definite success in their journey towards getting some more recognition, so you just had to come this time around to celebrate and be there for them.

Wherever you looked, you found more and more graffiti covering the unpolished walls, some mere doodles and tags while others were full on pieces of art with the faces of contemporary revolutionaries. Like much of the audience, you yourself had tasted a little bit of some traitorously sweet liquor (your wallet did not like that), just to heighten the overall experience of this punk event. You felt it sitting in the pit of your stomach and wondered if that'd been a good idea.

It was making you warmer too, among all of these people. Cool, very loud people.

You made your best not to let the buzz in your head get to you, nor the tingling on your skin. Nor the apparent drilling of your eardrums, or the fabric against your body. It was just the drink, and the adrenaline, and it was manageable.

It was a fun night. A punk concert. A kind of concert that every person within Hobie's circle loved going to... and you too! Generally speaking, anyway. Or sometimes.

Up there with the band, a couple of rows away, playing the guitar, was the one of the reasons you came here at all tonight.

Hobie— he's mesmerizing... like, tonight. The prettiest of fans reaching out to him at the feet of the stage made that very clear. He was hyper while shredding his beloved guitar, exuberant as the entire place was.

Those smug, and sharp lips of his, were colorfully tinted. Bright eyeshadow on, dangly jewelry; you'd decided to match a little together by putting similar silver rings on the majority of your fingers (they weren't exactly your size), some extravagant bracelets, and wearing a few necklaces of varying longitudes like he usually did at events. That, in addition to your own leather spiked and studded cuffs up and down your fishnet-clad arms, matching hobie's spiked collar.

If you sat together you'd definitely look like two cheeks of the same ass. Like you modeled for your 'friend' to pick shit to wear together, which may or may not have happened at some point. You had chains hanging from your belt hoops, just like him Graphic tank tops, yours white and his black. When you looked at yourself it the mirror you were both like, hell yeah, that's the man!

It was a lot— It looked very good.

What? Did it feel very good? As in, right now? As in, on this body, in this instant, in this place? Next question.

Hobie was exhilarated, sweating and grinning down at the multitude. From time to time, he'd search for your gaze through all of the expectant eyes, and you'd half-wave at him with a smile. Wobbly smile. Maybe a thumbs up. That's what you had to give him in the middle of this. Of all this jumping and pushing over-excited audience.

A mindless someone spilled half of their beverage on your leg, and you damn near lost it at the stickiness of it just a minute later. But it's fine, luckily he didn't see.

When you got home you'd just take a nice shower to leave you feeling fresh and anew. And not sticky, nor sweaty.

And you'd put on the most comfortable clothes you own, if any, to compensate for what you've worn tonight. A familiar snack, maybe a movie if you weren't too tired, and then cuddle your pillow to sleep in peace, in the warmth and safety of your bed.

Hobie's having the time of his life. Stay in the moment, will you? This is the fantasy underground concert of all the punkest people you've met.

Despite wanting to give him the utmost attention, your feet carried you back to one of the place's crude, simple bar counters, and you hoped to have the bartender's attention for a cold glass of water.

You signaled, but nothing. Both of them were busy attending others. Fine. You called when they were polishing the glasses with some cloth while watching the band, not a glance. Okay, the music is loud, you'll give them that.

You hunched over on the counter in an attempt to dull your senses.

At some point you were fanning yourself with an empty paper plate that you grabbed from a nearby pile of them. All of this accumulated heat in the poorly ventilated space was making you dizzy. Your fingers reached to the beautiful decorations on your neck to fidget with them. So much metal tangling and clashing together... at least some parts weren't warm.

The more you breathed and paused in your seat to notice what was going on with your body and your environment, the less rested you felt, and a growing, unwelcomed sensation of disquietude began to spread across your torso and limbs.

“Sir,” you stopped fanning yourself. A deep femenine voice spoke above the loud melodies from the other side of the counter, belonging to a lady with colored tattoos all over.

“The plate.” she extended a hand with menacing arched eyebrows, though it seemed that she was just born with that as her natural expression. Or maybe her slick, high bun was just pulling her face back, like those cats when you put your hand over their ears and they go into airplane mode. Aerodynamic cats...

“What?”

“The plate. You gotta pay for that,” she elaborated in the same tone. Pay for a paper plate? At this event? You must be misinterpreting this.

“Oh, sorry, I was just...! It's hot, and I saw this— this empty plate, and thought it'd work to... cool down. You know,” you gestured a fan motion with a brief chuckle, for some reason. Ugh, was it hard to think properly with this amount of noise.

“Do you have some water?”

“Right away, sir. The plate.”

“Can I have it in the meanwhile? It's like, empty. It had no food.”

“No, sorry. Rules.”

Your eyebrows went up in surprise. Rules? “For empty plates? I'm not going to steal it if that's what...”

“Rules, sir. Someone else will need that.”

You looked to your side. The few people sat by the counter merely had drinks in their hands, though it's true that, barely, some walking around were snacking on pizza and whatnot.

“... I don't think so? There's not many, um. Not to insult your business here, but you know. I think people are more interested in the band,” you lagged but signaled behind you with your thumb. This paper plate was actually helping you cool down up until a moment ago.

“Maybe I can be the exception.”

The bartender dropped her hand and put the other on her hip, sighing. God knows she'd rather not be here.

“Or you can buy something that comes with a plate.”

Blinking and trying to spin one of your rings to loosen it up, you thought about the feeling of flavors spreading through your dry mouth, and another bill solemnly waving goodbye to your wallet.

There was enough going on already.

If only you could be in a soundless, invisible and impenetrable fresh bubble right now. With nothing touching you.

“... Will you put a lot of ice in my water, please.”

She nodded and instantly walked away. Finally. You were gonna fan yourself again when... where the heck's the plate? Oh, the bartender's hand. That's cool. Cool.

No it's not. Not cool.

Maybe you could just grab another, you were starting to feel actually nauseous, probably because of the drink, but... you'd tried enough and this late worker seemed to need a break too.

The old leathers of your cuffs and bracelets kept pricking at your skin, and you checked if anyone was looking before reorganizing them around like you did with your rings.

Wait. Now that you think about it, were you pushy just now? With the bartender? You didn't mean to be an inconvenient customer.

Damn it. You were kind of slow and insistent, weren't you? Although the rule was dumb anyway. She looked tired already, having been here a lot longer. She'd been serving drinks before you even arrived. The thought of being here for any much longer like her started forming a painful lump in your throat and it was like you physically sensed your heartbeat quickening.

A hand ran through your hair in an attempt to get some air and dissipate the pain within your neck. Not working. Your hair got stuck in the designs of a ring, ouch.

Everything on your body was becoming a bother, and was constantly in the back of you mind. The endless chattering, the sickness and heat, the stickiness of your leg and the metals against your skin. Now the last social interaction was weighing down now on your mind as you realized that maybe you weren't considerate enough.

But Hobie, oh, Hobie. You should be able to stay in this place for him. If only he was here to make it better— or not, no. Not like this.

He, with the power of unmasking you and making you let it all go without even meaning to, seeing you right now? What will you do? You weren't even sure of what'll come out of this. All this. Could it pass? Yes, you may just need that water that you asked for.

Yeah, sure. It'll pass.

Probably.

Or maybe not. Maybe you'd abruptly shatter at some point that you didn't even expect, because none of it seemed like a big deal until you stopped for long enough to think about it.

Maybe you just wouldn't be able to be fun company when you saw him again, because all of this heavy and constricting jewelery would still be on you. And if you took it out, then why would you even be here? It wouldn't be your place. The punk in you is concentrated in the spikes and the sharp edges.

His night would die young after the band stops playing, and it'd be made so awkward. Knowing him he'd offer to accompany you home, sweet as he is. And it'd your fault.

For promising and assuring you'd be here at this undeniably great event, thinking that you have the same resistance as every other punk. Not to sound dramatic but, if you couldn't even attend a regular concert without enjoying it sincerely, did you have the right to hang around punks? Call yourself one?

You can't even properly participate in the usual activities of the counterculture you chose without losing your shit.

Can't even look like them for long enough without wanting to rip off your skin.

Too encapsulated in your own head, you had just came to notice unfamiliar songs had started playing over the band's, and not being able to predict what you were listening to anymore it all just turned into a bunch of incongruous and disconnected strings of melody— if melody at all.

Fuck, you had to get out of there.

“Mate, you okay?” a stranger's voice followed by a sudden, invasive pressure on your shoulder snapped you out of stillness.

“Sir? Your water!” the bartender called, but her voice faded as you stumbled away into the crowd.

The members of the band were scattered; faces permeated with vibrant neon flashes that you wish wouldn't recognize you right now with those excessively curious and squinting eyes, having a body language and gestures that indicated that their topic of conversation was most likely about someone in your direction.

You pushed, excused yourself, and hastily dodged people in the look for something.

What were you looking for? Right— a way out. A way out. Where even was the entrance? God, is it warm in here.

Also, people in here should've put on more deodorant. Also, tonight's realization was that you may have chosen some of the worst materials ever invented to wear, and you don't know how others manage to layer them all without spiritually disintegrating. Also, were the people around this corner smoking poor quality weed or did they just stink?

There was another unexpected hand on your shoulder, which you didn't quite notice for a second. It was the deep timbre of his voice calling your name that made you turn around and look at him like a deer in headlights.

Yay.

Hobie was unnecessarily close and, instinctively, you stepped back. His eyes still reflected a level of energy, of excitement to talk about the concert, that you weren't prepared to match in the slightest right now. However, it seemed that it was being... deliberately toned down the longer he looked at you.

Awkward.

“Hey. What's wrong, love?” he said, only for you to hear. Love?

“I'm— what? Nothing.” you shook your head like he was saying something ridiculous just out of the blue. Yet something across his painted features told you that your unsteady smile wasn't helping you with the act.

“Nothing's wrong.”

Discreetly scratching your neck, you moved some accessories out of the way in hopes to feel even if just a breeze. These necklaces would be the death of you.

Why was he looking at you like this? So unwavering, and silent, like searching for a fault in your words.

“What?” came out as a nervous chuckle. “It's all fine. I'm just a little lost. I don't— it's cool, man.”

Controlling your breathing for it to be at a normal pace has never been so suffocating.

“Yeah, cobblers. What's goin' on?”

'What you wear is driving me crazy and this place is becoming a nightmare', prepare to be considered a poser for the rest of your life.

'Oh, I was just leaving without saying goodbye to never be seen again', and he'd think you hate him forever.

This is embarrassing. He reached to fix a messy pair of necklaces, you may have tangled them up without realizing.

“... Do you need anything? Wanna go somewhere else?”

You stared at him, and not at him, and at everything else around you like you were being held fucking hostage. You desperately wanted the security and grounding that his presence gave you, while needing his hand gone. And you too, gone from here.

Something about his tone was making your mask fray at the seams. Just a little.

"... I need some air. That's all.”

It was surprisingly easy for him to get that. He looked around, and nodded with a murmur before, to your dismay, grabbing your arm and guiding you through people. At least you didn't have to push anyone anymore because everybody got out of the way when Hobie's boots hit the ground. There it is, the exit sign!

In a whisp, he'd brought you out and into an alley behind the establishment, which kind of smelled like piss. In any case, you managed to take a breath and weren't asphyxiating as much. Your nails dragged through your scalp without facing Hobie.

“Mate, what happened?” Hobie said as you paced in the most casual way someone about to physically vibrate away can, a couple of meters away from him. “Is anyone following you? bothering you?”

“No— what? no. No one's bothering me. It's just me.”

He looked at you inquisitively. You really didn't feel like talking. You really didn't even feel like being seen; but he made you feel seen. It's so confusing. How do you get this over with?

“I'm... Listen, I'm sorry. This is stupid.”

“What is? I'm gonna need you to elaborate, mate,” he tried to get closer to you, but you kept moving.

“Was it the mosh? The noise?”

“No, no. It's... I mean, yes. But that's not what...God. I don't know.” a brief, wavering tide threatened to take over your voice.

“Hobie, I can't right now.”

While trying to soothe yourself and take in the airflow of the narrow alley, you heard his boots thudding on the pavement before noticing his frame towering over you.

His fingers enveloped the wrist of the hand that was subconsciously trying to pull at your cuffs, to keep you from pacing in such a hesitant, lost way.

“You're worrying me. What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Big load of pony. Look at you, what're you doing? What happened?”

“Nothing—”

“Ain't nobody act like this when nothing's wrong.”

He wanted you to look him in the face, focus on him, yet no matter how much Hobie shifted to follow your eyes, you didn't. You looked away. So, ultimately, he held you by your shoulders when you gave your back to the wall in a poor and distasteful attempt to, perhaps, ground you.

But can't he read the goddamn room? He knows you don't like eye contact like this! Not even he does. You pushed Hobie on his chest.

“Don't touch me, mother—”

“Well, talk to me!”

“It's not fucking easy!”

“I need to know what's bloody happening. Are you in danger?”

It sure felt like it for the past hour and a half. What's up with his obsession with danger? The crackheads in the restroom didn't seem that violent.

“No! Or, I don't know. It feels like it but... The jewelry... and the bartender... and my leg,”

“I don't get it, what are you saying?”

“That there's too much going on! I can't. I don't know. It's so hot. And it was packed in there. And I can't approach or talk to people without making it weird. And I can't just go to any concert even if I really, really think I want to. And I have a thousand things on me that I cannot stand, that I hate— like hate feeling...” ah, shit. Here we go. The dam began to break.

You leaned against the wall, resting your weight on it before deciding the rough texture was also a threat.

“But I just want to be like you and all the other cool punks in here so I kept this crap on! And stayed in there. I didn't want to feel... I don't fucking- I don't know... inadequate.”

“... Inadequate? Here? For looking a different way?”

“For looking and being different.”

The pair of big brown eyes that you swore you could look at forever, made you feel too exposed now as they swept you up and down with a softer look of concern on his face. Your shoulder brushed his bare one as you walked past him to avoid his gaze.

“Maybe I don't belong in your circles, Hobie. That's what I'm trying to say. I'm sorry. I want to go home and... take this all off. I'm not a real punk like you.”

You could feel his speechless presence behind you, processing your words. The silence was excruciating from the first 2 seconds, even if you craved it.

Would this change your friendship? You prayed for it to not be so. This felt very similar to those moments that invaded your mind right when you're trying to sleep and made you regret shit, and it'd undoubtedly become one of them.

With how awkward this had gotten, and was getting, the least surprising thing to happen would probably be for Hobie to avoid you for a while. You'd fucked up your chance to be any closer with him. Good job, brain.

You heard his footsteps approaching and you tensed up in place. There it was again, that hand in your shoulder, but a lot more light, and doubtful than before. You didn't know what to prefer, if the amount of care he put into signaling you to turn around and face him, with his hand almost just hovering over your ticklish skin, or if the secure and whole weight of it on your shoulder.

Hobie didn't say anything as he intentionally separated your crossed, barely self-soothing arms.

He unclasped and untied your cuffs; one, three, five, even the one that matched his on your bicep. It didn't take you much longer to inspect his face in search for a clue on what he was thinking, but it was hard to read. It was concern but in a stern way, with something akin to... dissapointment?

Oh, god. You shut your eyes, that's it. That's just it, you did it. He'd been all over the moon for the whole night and now, officially, you had—

“What's passin' through that loaf of yours, mm, fake punk?”

Opening your teary eyes without much of a will, you looked up at him. Something in his expression had changed a little.

“I hope you're not blaming yourself for this,” murmured Hobie ironically, like he could read your mind. Evidently, there was no answer.

By pressing his thumb on your palm, he kept your hand straight up and started collecting the rings on your fingers. You weren't aware of just how tight they were on you until he carefully had to unscrew them off your hands, you just knew they made your hand numb and hard to move. The intricate shapes and designs on them were dashing, he put them in his pocket and did the same with your other hand.

You didn't feel cornered anymore, just drained. And defeated, still listening to the muffled out music inside the place. The song wasn't that bad, really, still you felt the beats in your blood.

After he'd helped you take off the numerous neck accessories, the fishnets kept bothering you, but at least it was a little more manageable for the time being.

The necessity to rest and sit down was greater than the disgust towards the poorly illuminated concrete beneath your feet. So, crouching down and putting your back against the wall, you sat down and zoned out. The gruesome warning images of throat and tongue cancer imprinted on a crumpled, empty cigar box beside you weren't particularly relaxing, it was more like they recognized the discomfort in you, so you gave them your attention.

Hobie followed you down, keeping you company. After a few seconds, he spoke.

“... You know, it's not so much about what you wear.” You didn't know if he had other songs to play or if his band had finished already, but you wouldn't reject his presence. If there was anyone you'd let be with you right now, it's him.

“They called us punks because we vandalized their institutional shit, and because we didn't care about being in the normative.”

The intervals between his sentences made you feel like shit, to be honest. Did he think you'd snap at him at any second? Because he'd be right, you just might. Even if he's merely trying to help. That's what makes it worse.

“We were just the bad kids in the beginning, listening to different music. The ones that didn't fit in or caused trouble.”

The ones that didn't fit in. You see what he's trying to do.

But you tried so hard not to cause trouble, didn't you? It was always unintentional.

Unintentionally, always regarding stupid rules or harmful, nonsensical behaviors.

Perhaps you did cause some. The questioning of certain socially accepted, or otherwise not accepted things have culminated in heated debate in the past for you. That is true, you have to admit.

You have troubled others by not believing all as true just because most say it is. By going beyond surface level thought, and trying to understand what drives people's actions. It doesn't even need to be in bad faith for a divergent line of thinking to be repressed and cause reactions, it comes to show the herd-like society you live in.

“We just took the term, claimed it with pride. It's not about the clothes, or all these spikes, or the cuffs. Sometimes even goin' to places like these are an extra. We've talked about this before, luv.”

Hobie rested a hand on the leg you'd flexed close to your chest, to which your head turned to half-look in his direction.

“It's about whether you conform to what's imposed on you. And listen,” he said, like you hadn't been dead silent since your little outburst.

"You're one of, if not the most important bloke to me. I know you. Like truly, I know you. And you ain't that different from me.”

Was that so? You searched for something in his features, something to tell you if he was just telling you a white lie out of pity, but he seemed completely genuine.

Your eyes shifted from his, to his lips ahem, to his thumb now hesitantly rubbing circles on your knee.

Thinking about it, maybe you were like, who knows, overreacting a little about not fitting in with punks.

Because he was kind of right, that's the whole point.

And you could listen to your shared favorite punk bands together in the radio, at your places, without always having to come here. You'd leave that part to Hobie. It was mostly a sensory thing, right? Take that out, and you really aren't that different. You like and do the same things, when you're comfortable. You both actively question the systems around you.

For the first time since he'd left your side to go on stage, you made a move to get closer and enter his space rather than tense up or rush away. Leaning your head on his shoulder, his arm left your knee to drape around your back.

"You're very important to me too, Hobie.”

It just came out, there was an urge to make that clear. Hobie squeezed you against him for a second as a response. There were definitely some things unsaid, by both of you. You could sense it in the way Hobie breathed like he was about to speak, but whatever it was that was crossing his mind he kept to himself.

You don't know for how long you kept still like that, but it was long enough for you to calm down significantly; and, as your nervous system wasn't reacting like there were 3 lions at every corner about to pounce on you anymore, and you weren't in the mood to do much more at the risk of this dread inside you igniting again, you figured your night was over. And so did Hobie, apparently.

“I'll walk you home.”

Just like you predicted.

“I'd rather not, please.”

His eyebrows instantly pinched together in confusion, like it was unthinkable for him to not do as he said.

“Ah, ha. Love, you know I will.”

Sometimes you wish he wasn't so stubborn on being helpful, but then again he simply wouldn't be Hobie in that case. You gave yourself a break and refused to tell him otherwise this time around.

And could one refuse to anything he said anyway if it was in that honey-coated tone? You could very well get used to this 'love' nick he'd given you recently, and to the mysterious lipstick stain of totally cryptic and unknown sources on your forehead which you somehow brought home.

Maybe you just didn't sleep enough. Maybe it was the stimulant drinks you had had to keep you energized. Maybe it was having been out, and having talked to or been around too many people, and having had to bear the motherfuckers guys that pass by you on their unnecessarily loud motorbikes on the street, thinking that somehow accelerating right past you is in some way impressive or funny. Oof. Shuddering at the memory.

Typically, you'd be unsure of what is to be done about it, this feeling of density in your nerves. You could try and ignore it, let it ferment in silence in the back of your mind as you do whatever mundane task keeps you busy and stimulated without being too much. Cleaning, making a snack, walking around the house with no set motives.

The moment you have to sit still, though, it becomes a little too apparent, and very much annoying. And you know something, that isn't faking it (pretending you're fine) until you make it, has to be done about it.

You, soggy sponge full of a ridiculous amount of some deeply bothersome, psychologically rancid substance, YEARNED to be squeezed. To be freed from the mental sensation of being a struggling balloon over-filled with helium. To be, essentially, grabbed by a giant pair of hands, and have them squish you slowly, mercilessly, until you deflate.

Of course, none of those were viable solutions if you wanted to avoid being an outlaw to this universe, and abide by the laws of physics. Bummer, no? So you had to go for the next most liberating thing,

with the help of your ever-willing (...crickets...) and loving partner.

Hopefully.

“Hobie,”

“Yeah?” although Hobie's hands did not pause the tuning of his guitar, his eyes did dart up to your form standing across the living room, just by the doorway.

“Can you like... Uh.” You tried to gain some time, walking to sit on the couch next to him (he wasn't sitting on the couch, but on the carpet), and let it sink in his mind that you were gonna ask something.

“Lie on me?”

There was a beat of silence. That did have his hands stopping, though not him looking back at you for a second.

“Lie on you?”

“Yeah.” a nervous laugh escaped you when he turned to you with a skeptical frown. You didn't feel like overexplaining yourself today; that'd just delay results. It wasn't easy to explain, anyway.

“Man, like. Can you lie on me? You know.”

“Bruv. Do I? Do I know? Why'd...” his head shook while a slightly amused, although confused expression spread across his face.

You gestured around, “It's... I like when people lie or sit on... Like.” Hobie raised an eyebrow. “Not like that! I just like to have someone on me. Come here?”

His shoulders rose as he sighed, looking at you thoughtfully with a posture that did not indicate compliance. “Oi, I know sometimes I look like I don't weight much, but that... it ain't true.”

“No but that's the point—”

“I'm not going to squash you.”

“Oh come on. Listen, just—” you gestured your hands for him to keep his attention on you and lied on your back on the couch. To which he, (not) putting it nicely, he laughed at your face. Standing up and abandoning his guitar on the floor. “Are you serious?”

“Bring it in!”

“Look at me!” he spread his arms and would have twirled in place to emphasize his size if he wasn't so shocked. “Love—”

There was mild laughter amidst your following words, but you truly had to try everything until something stuck, “If you love me you'll—”

“Nah, don't even try that!”

“Pizza later? You pay though.”

“You trynna bribe me with me own money?.” he smiled with disbelief.

“What if I died tomorrow without you having lain down on me?!”

That had his smile faltering and jaw clenching for a moment. Struck a nerve?

“Nope. Not there, baby.”

“Hobie, please.” he stared at you whining while trying to beckon him closer with your hands. You were starting to consider giving up and waiting until he left to, who knows, disassemble furniture and see if something is heavy enough. «You could hurt yourself»? To be alive is to be in danger anyway... or something.

“I need this. I promise it won't hurt me.”

He seemed to meditate the request for a moment upon seeing the real anxiety that hid under that pout of dubious genuineness. You were being a little too insistent to be joking. Poor attempts at emotional blackmailing were just not your thing with him and yet here you were.

Whatever. Who was he to question the kind of things that calmed you down? It's true that, as he was a tall guy, he was always extra careful with other people to not crush them like insects, but if your sake, that of the very favorite of his heart, was for him to do precisely that then, well.

Sigh.

“You're a funny one.” he said and started trying to find a way to do what you asked. A big grin of victory found its place on your face, and your energies were briefly renewed. He thought of it to be adorable.

“Okay, okay. Wait. Like this.” you turned around to lie on your belly and give him a more stable surface. Your back. “Now.”

Hobie maneuvered himself around, getting close and moving away intermittently. Was he that distrustful of his own, what, strength? Weight? You're not made of glass and it was starting to seem dramatic.

“Scary shit.”

“Imagine I signed a contract where I'm responsible for whatever happens.”

“You said it wouldn't hurt you. I am keeping your word.” he decided to start by positioning himself to sit on your bum. A soft and cushioned beginning, although more for his own peace than anything.

“And I stand by it...!” you reinforced.

Then your now even more beloved and handsome partner sat entirely without holding back and, uuuugh. Immediate relief in your lower body. Like being decompressed. The couch was probably about to try and swallow you.

“Ouh just like that. Like that. All over.” you pressed your forehead against the surface beneath with your face in between your elbows.

Hobie rotated himself on your behind so his back was facing yours. Luckily enough, he had been barefoot so you didn't have to worry about his big ass sexy clown boots leaving dirt nowhere on the furniture or you. You expected him to grip the backrest of the couch and lower himself in a very awkward manner, because unless you plop down carelessly onto someone else in this position how would you end up back-to-b... what.

Your head turned to the side just to see how the heck he was lowering himself so smoothly with nearly no support whatsoever. Core strength? He has a great affair with her, apparently.

“Hobie. Hobie, how are you doing that.” you said with an increasingly choked tone as his body weight distributed throughout your back.

“Doing what?” You couldn't answer, because heaven seemed to literally just have fallen upon you.

You lowered your arms with difficulty to lay them limp beside your body and turned your head to rest your cheek on the cushioned surface. Then you wheezed, feeling all of his dead weight on top of you.

“You good?”

“Perfect.” you choked out quickly. “I am so happy. Will you do this every day for the rest of my life.”

“'m keeping my last name, but I accept.”

You forced your constricted lungs to take the deepest breath possible, which heightened the overall experience of feeling like you were in a safe recreation of where those dang cave divers with a loving wife and 3 kids go in their free time. You were securely held-between slash being mashed-by 2 absolutely unmovable objects and it was great.

The urge to either scream or moan as you exhaled was strong, but unfortunately that is not socially acceptable. Alas, you and Hobie are not socially acceptable in general, so you just loosened up and practically roared like you were trying to scare off a bear.

“Bloody hell. Unbelievable.”

“Stop judging me—”

“'m not judging!”

“This is extremely liberating—” strained breath, “oh I'm so happy.”

“God. I love you,” Hobie paused, playing with your hair. “yer bloody strange.”

“I love you too, and fuck you.”