Gentle. Soft.

Thats how his skin felt under your fingertips. His skin was covered in welts and such, sensitive enough to make him yelp. Fresh, old, you had seen them all.

At age 14, you both had met in the smoking corner at school, slowly introduced to each other by common friends and such. A shared cigarette is what caused you to become close actually, your lipstick transferring to his lips, making you laugh. He laughed too, after a small grumble. And now, at 16, you were inseparable. Bound by stitches and wounds, held together by vodka and sugar.

And as typical teenagers do, you were in the shed at the bottom of your garden, made cozy by string lights and old cushions on the concrete floor. Music played through the busted speaker of your phone, and you both were cozied up together under an old blanket, a little scratchy from being dried too hot, but it didn't really matter. Your hands stretched under his shirt, feeling with a feather light touch. His dad had hit hard, this time. "Simon..." you mutter, crawling to straddle his lap. He sighs, taking your wrists in his hands and pulling them from his shirt. "You need to get out of that house, you don't deserve to be in this... state."

and all he can do is stare at you, scanning your face, your dark hair fell over your eyes, and he looked so much that he could have counted every strand. He probably was.

"Simon?" you say quietly, a blush slowly rising to your cheeks.

"Don't." The first words to leave his lips, and in an instant, his lips are on yours, tasting the vodka, your lipstick, your stupid Marlboro reds he hated. "Don't- just let me forget- please, help me forget.." He whispered, and for the first time, sounded truly defeated.